


Graine de toi

by komorebirei



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Adrinette April 2020, Bittersweet, Bodyswap, Character Study, Developing Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Friendship, Identity Reveal, Inspired by Kimi no Na wa. | Your Name., Life Swap, Light Angst, Romance, adrienette - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-02-23 06:14:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23707006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/komorebirei/pseuds/komorebirei
Summary: Ladybug and Chat Noir think they’re close, until they begin waking up in one another’s skin. AU: Adrien is homeschooled, and he and Marinette have never met.Written for Adrinette April 2020, Day 17: Life Swap. The one prompt snowballed into a multi-chapter fic. Loosely inspired by Your Name (Kimi no na wa), but no need to have watched it to read.
Relationships: Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir/Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug
Comments: 177
Kudos: 426





	1. Imaginary You

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Just a brief explanation about this AU. All the canon background facts as of Origins are the same, except Adrien doesn’t go to public school. He is Chat Noir, and Marinette is Ladybug, but they’ve never met as civilians. Also, none of the canon akumatizations have happened—Hawkmoth akumatizes a more realistically-random selection of people that neither Adrien nor Marinette knows personally.
> 
> When this story begins, Ladybug and Chat Noir have been fighting together for about a year, and their relationship is like canon post-Season Three, minus Chat Blanc.
> 
> TW: brief mention of a potential panic attack, but it passes quickly.

Adrien’s body clock is accurate. He only sets his alarm every day as a precaution, but even when he doesn’t, he regularly wakes up at six-twenty on the dot.

Today, as his consciousness rises to the surface, he finds the silence odd. Did he forget his alarm? Is it early? Eyes still closed, he flails out an arm toward the side of his bed where he keeps his phone.

Only he doesn’t find the phone. He doesn’t even find the shelf that he sets the phone on. Instead, his hand makes contact with a metal railing of some sort. A railing that shouldn’t be there.

Unnerved, he cracks open his eyes, then squints at the sunlight streaming down from above.

For a moment, he feels disoriented, and his stomach swoops. Why is there a window in front of him? He feels like he’s stuck to a wall, before his brain rights itself and he realizes it’s a skylight.

He doesn’t have a skylight.

Nerves spiking, he sits up abruptly. Heart pounding, he takes stock of his surroundings. Heavy wooden beams. Yellow ceiling, stiflingly close to his head. Pink bedspread. More often than not, when things are unusual upon waking, it’s because of an akuma—instinctively, his thumb brushes the spot where his miraculous ring should be, only to come in contact with bare skin.

Alarm bells go off in Adrien’s mind, and he brings his hand into view. It’s a slender hand, with long, graceful fingers—and no sign of his miraculous. “Plagg?!” he hisses.

Even his voice sounds different—higher and smoother than usual. _What in the world is going on?_ He feels the urge to scream, until his mind rationalizes that this must only be a dream—an exceedingly vivid dream. There can be no other explanation for waking up in an unfamiliar place and an unfamiliar body.

He takes a few deep breaths, trying not to panic.

“Marinette? What’s wrong?”

The unfamiliar, high-pitched voice makes him jump. Surprised that there’s someone else in the room, he looks around frantically in search of the person who spoke, but doesn’t see anyone right away.

“Hello?” he asks. Now that the edge of panic has dulled, his dream-voice sounds somewhat familiar. He notices that the way it slides over his vocal chords feels different, and his hand comes up to his throat. “Why does this feel so real?” he whispers.

“What do you mean, Marinette?”

 _‘Marinette’ again. Who is this ‘Marinette?’_ Is the disembodied voice talking to him?

A small red blob swoops in front of him, and he realizes it’s a kwami.

This calms him down a little bit. Kwamis are familiar, even if this one isn’t.

The kwami’s eyes are wide, blue, and concerned. It has a large black spot on its head, and smaller ones on each of its cheeks. It sort of looks like a _ladybug—_ the realization makes Adrien’s heart thump faster.

Ladybug’s kwami. ‘Marinette’ is Ladybug.

He doesn’t _feel_ like he’s dreaming, but he must be—there’s no other explanation. He’s going to wake up later, excited to have learned something about Ladybug’s identity, only to realize he’s been dreaming the whole time and that none of it is true. It’s all an invention of his subconscious.

“Are you… Ladybug’s kwami?” Adrien asks in the sweet-sounding voice, which is foreign but not unfamiliar. He knows Ladybug’s voice. The voice, at least, is on point.

The kwami comes closer, concern deepening on her features. “Marinette, are you all right?”

Adrien deduces from the lack of a proper response that the answer should be obvious. He touches his earlobes and feels smooth domes, warming up to the idea that he isn’t himself at the moment. He’s had dreams like this before. Well—not quite _like this,_ inhabiting the body of his beloved, and none have ever been as vivid—but it isn’t unheard of to assume a different persona in a dream. He’s been Ness before. He’s been Link. It (sort of) makes sense that sooner or later, he’d dream about being the person he spends most of every day thinking about.

“Am I Ladybug?” he asks.

“Of course, Marinette,” the kwami soothes, nuzzling his cheek. “Are you still dreaming? Maybe you should go back to sleep.”

“I’m fine.” Adrien smiles, returning the nuzzle. He decides to embrace the lucid dream and make the most of it. Whatever he might do in this dreamverse should be more interesting than lessons with Nathalie, and if his body hasn’t woken up automatically, it mustn’t be time yet. “I’m already awake, anyway.”

The smile seems to reassure the kwami somewhat. Some of the tension leaves her face. “I’m surprised you woke up so early today,” she remarks as Adrien pushes down the covers.

Adrien tries to remember if Ladybug has ever mentioned her kwami’s name. It was something sharp, two syllables, and reminded him of Indian food. Tikka? Ah— _Tikki._ “Guess I slept pretty well and woke up energized, Tikki,” he responds in Marinette’s voice, testing out the name.

“That’s good to hear!” Tikki bubbles, to Adrien’s relief—he’s gotten it right.

Adrien’s body feels different as he crawls to the foot of the bed—he feels soft and small. Swinging his legs over the edge, he flinches when his feet make contact with the cool planks of the steps. Ladybug’s feet are bare. How can she sleep without socks on?

Ladybug’s feet. Ladybug’s body. The strangeness of it all gives him pause, and he perches there on the top of the ladder, re-orienting himself.

Tentatively, he lifts one hand and looks at it more closely than before, turning it over slowly to inspect the slender fingers, the way delicate tendons ripple the skin on the back of the hand, the spider-web lines that criss-cross the palm. Ladybug’s hand.

Or at least, how he imagines her hand. He has to remind himself that this is not real, even though it _feels_ real enough that he keeps forgetting.

He runs those hands over Ladybug’s smooth forearms, which are covered in a dusting of fine hair. He can feel the ridges of her arm bones, and her elbows are pointy. Has he ever been able to feel and perceive so clearly in a dream before? So uncanny.

His gaze falls down to his chest, where he sees two gentle mounds peaking beneath the skimpy tank top Ladybug is wearing.

He sucks in a breath and averts his eyes quickly. Even if this _is_ just a dream, and he doesn’t know if Ladybug really looks like this, or if her name is really Marinette, he would never violate her by taking advantage of a situation like this to familiarize himself with her body.

Shaking his head to cast away unwanted thoughts, he begins to clamber down the ladder, a bit unsteady on smaller-than-usual feet and from the shift in his center of gravity.

“Don’t forget your phone, Marinette,” Tikki calls out, unplugging the device from its dock on the recessed shelf behind the bed and bringing it over.

“Thank you, Tikki.” Adrien smiles, no longer unnerved by the fact that the voice comes out sounding like a teenage girl’s. Even if she is just a figment of his imagination, he’s fond of Ladybug’s kwami. She seems sweet, helpful, and enthusiastic, unlike Plagg—not that he’d ever begrudge Plagg’s companionship.

Reaching the bottom of the ladder, Adrien walks out into the center of Ladybug’s room, and the rough texture of the round carpet in the center of her room chafes his bare feet pleasantly. He isn’t used to walking around barefoot, but in this place, even the floor feels inviting and wholesome.

“Since you’re so early, you’ll have time for a proper breakfast before school,” Tikki chirps, fluttering around his shoulder.

“School?” Adrien’s ears perk up. That’s right, Ladybug has mentioned before that she goes to public school. He looks around for a door or staircase out of the room, but sees nothing at first.

 _Oh no,_ he thinks, heart sinking. What if this is one of _those_ dreams… where he can’t get out? He begins to pivot, inspecting the walls for anything that looks like it could be pushed on or opened, his heart rate and breathing growing more rapid—

“Marinette? What’s wrong?”

Tikki’s voice barely registers as his cheeks prickle and his hearing dims. Then, he notices a rectangular plank of wood on the floor near where he’s standing. He _never_ would have thought to look on the floor, but now that he’s noticed it, it looks fairly obvious that it’s a door. He drops onto his knees, breathing easily only once he’s lifted it and seen a flight of stairs heading down.

He takes a moment to suck in deep breaths, relief washing over him.

“Don’t forget to change out of your pajamas again, Marinette!” Tikki cries from across the room, hovering around the hefty wooden beam that forms the support structure for Ladybug’s loft bed.

Tikki doesn’t _seem_ to have noticed Adrien was on the verge of a panic attack. He didn’t even know that was possible in a dream, but there’s a first time for everything.

It’s odd to have to change clothing in a dream, but he plays along. Upon closer inspection, Adrien realizes the wooden beam is actually a hidden drawer. Opening it, he peers at the stacks of immaculately folded clothing. Everything roughly fits into a pink-grey-black-white palette, with no outlying colors. So organized.

“Are you sure you’re feeling all right, Marinette?” Tikki’s voice is laced with worry. “There’s something different about you today. You seem distracted. Or are you sick?”

“I’ve never felt better.” Adrien feels fine now, and he’s excited about the prospect of experiencing school, even if it’s not real. This is what dreams are for, isn’t it? Doing things that he can’t do in real life.

Humming to himself optimistically, he rifles through the folded shirts and selects one that looks plain and black. Even though anything goes in a dream, he still feels like an intruder in Ladybug’s body, and black seems like a safe, modest color. He feels comfortable in black, and it’s less likely to tempt him to look down. Opening an adjacent drawer to find pants, he decides to give the one on top a try, a garment in blush pink.

There are quite a few articles of pink clothing in her dresser. And, come to think of it, her walls are pink, too. _Potential favorite color—pink,_ he files away.

Over the wooden structure, he catches sight of a sewing machine and several piles of fabric lining an L-shaped workstation. Intrigued, he rounds the beam, entering the bracketed-off area under her bed.

Between two piles of folded fabric lie several sheets of loose white paper, embellished with penciled sketches in fluid lines. He picks up the top sheet and turns it back and forth, watching the way the morning sunlight glances off the graphite tracks. It’s a cocktail dress design, and judging by the way the hands, head, and feet of the figure are barely distinct while the bodice and folds of the dress are rendered with detail, Ladybug is into fashion design, not just art. It makes sense, considering her palette-constrained wardrobe.

As much as he’d like to get away from his father’s influence, the idea of _Ladybug_ as a designer tickles his fancy. It isn’t too far of a stretch for his subconscious to give her that hobby, of course. How convenient for him if he can be useful to her somehow, through modeling or general familiarity with the fashion world. Maybe it’s just a fantasy, but he approves.

“Marinette, now is not the time to start a new project!” Tikki’s voice reminds Adrien that this bizarre dream isn’t taking place in the usual timeless void—the clock is running, like a dream version of Majora’s Mask. “You know you’ll only get sucked in if you start now!”

The kwami appears over Adrien’s shoulder, and he puts the sketch down hurriedly.

“Right, right, sorry! I’ll save the designing for later,” he laughs, in character. “I’m changing now.”

He sets the day’s clothing on top of a fabric pile. Nervous about changing in Ladybug’s body, he sheds her spaghetti-strap pajama top quickly with his eyelids half-shut, to prevent himself from accidentally seeing anything his imagination can latch onto, and pulls on the black shirt. Next, he undoes the drawstring of her pajama pants and lets them fall to the ground

Checking which side of the pants is the back, Adrien notices that there’s no tag. Did she make them herself? Exploring the fabric with curiosity, his fingers encounter a rough patch on the inner side of the waistband, like embroidered stitches. Upon closer inspection, he realizes it’s her name in cursive—confirmation that the garment is her own handiwork. Awed, he steps into the garment with as much admiration and care as if it’s made of spun gold.

“Oh, that’s a cute outfit, Marinette!” Tikki chirps, clasping her tiny hands together with glee. “The pants look so wonderful on you!”

“Does the bow look okay?” Adrien asked. They’re waist-high pants that tie with a wide sash—something he’s never touched, let alone tied, before.

“I think so.” Tikki tilts almost ninety-degrees as she inspects the look from an angle, then zooms in and pinches the fabric a few times to perfect the bow. “There!”

He’s curious how it looks, so he rounds the beam-drawers to peer into the vanity mirror over her sink. And as soon as he does, he realizes he was nowhere near prepared for the ethereal beauty that blinks back at him through the looking glass.

Before the outfit, he notices her face—brilliant, blue-topaz irises rimmed with thick, dark eyelashes befitting of a doll. She wouldn’t even need false ones for a photoshoot, only mascara. He’s always found Ladybug’s eyes captivating, but there’s something different about them when the mask is out of the way. They’re brighter, clearer. She has the face of a person who smiles often.

“She’s gorgeous,” he whispers dreamily, watching her plush lips move to form the words.

“Who is, Marinette?” Tikki inquires.

“Oh… ignore me, I’m just thinking aloud.”

Right, he’s supposed to be checking the outfit, not getting lost in Ladybug’s radiant face.

The black shirt is _much_ more flattering than he expected, with a boat neck that traces a line from shoulder to shoulder, just below her clavicles. It’s fitted, not too tightly, but enough to accentuate her curves in a sleek silhouette. The straight-leg pink pants cinch around her waist with a wide sash that covers the bottom hem of the shirt, making her hips look full in comparison. The rose hue of the garment brings out the natural flush of her cheeks, making her clear skin glow with health. It’s as if the shade of pink was perfectly designed to complement Ladybug’s complexion.

No wonder she wears so much pink. She’s clearly figured out what looks good on her.

“Ready, Marinette?” Tikki prompts in a chipper tone.

“Yes,” Adrien breathes, reluctantly tearing his eyes away from the vision in the mirror to head downstairs.

—

An Asian woman with a bob-cut and short stature is bustling around the kitchen when Adrien pads in shyly.

“Good morning, Marinette!” she greets in a cheerful voice, holding a hand out toward Adrien.

He isn’t sure what the gesture means. She isn’t quite beckoning him. It looks more like she expects him to give her something, maybe his hand. Who is she, anyway? He’d assume she’s Ladybug’s mother, but could she be a nanny? Ladybug does bear some resemblance to her—in the hair, and vaguely the eyes—so ‘mother’ is probably a safe bet.

Would Ladybug say ‘Mère,’ or ‘Maman’?

Adrien decides to take a risk and responds with, “Good morning, Maman,” raising his own hand in a tentative wave.

Chuckling to herself, the short Asian woman comes over and pulls his neck down to give him a kiss on the cheek. “You’re early this morning, Ying Hua! You must still be asleep.”

The physical affection catches Adrien off-guard, and his cheeks burn, feeling self-conscious. He turns away so she won’t notice his reaction. Surely the _real_ Marinette wouldn’t be blushing over such a gesture. At least the woman seemed to accept ‘Maman.’

He forces a yawn, pretending to be sleepier than he is. Ladybug doesn’t seem to be a morning person (an amusing discovery), and both Tikki and Ladybug’s mother have excused his odd behavior because of it, so he may as well make the most of that while he can.

He recognizes the name Ladybug’s mother called her—‘Ying Hua,’ which means ‘cherry blossom’ in Mandarin. It’s a cute name for Ladybug. Does she speak Mandarin? He smiles to himself as he takes a seat at the table where Ladybug’s mother has just placed a plated croissant, some fresh strawberries, and a glass of milk.

Watching her take a kettle off the stove and pour it into a Chinese-style teapot, Adrien wonders idly if dream-Ladybug has a father. Of course, everyone _has_ a father, but… is he around? _I hope so,_ he thinks.

The croissant is as warm as any real croissant, flaky on the outside and tender on the inside. He’s never tasted a croissant more delicious in his life. 

He decides he _loves_ this dream and doesn’t mind staying asleep for a while longer.

“Maman?” He tests the appellation again, still tentative.

Ladybug’s mother answers with an absent-minded, inquisitive hum, readying two small ceramic cups as the tea steeps.

“Where’s my school?”

Ladybug’s mother looks at him in surprise. “Right across the street, dear. Are you all right?”

Adrien makes a ‘wrong answer’ buzz and grins. “I don’t have a school—I’m not a fish!”

He winks and shoots her finger guns, praying he won’t face consequences for his audacity. His father would feel mocked and punish him immediately, but Ladybug’s mother doesn’t seem like the type who would get offended.

Anyway, it’s just a dream. He could have just asked, but he’s sort of having fun playing his part, pretending that he’ll ‘lose the game’ if someone finds out he’s an impostor in Marinette’s body.

To Adrien’s delight, Ladybug’s mother trills a laugh. “Did you get that joke from your father? —Oh! Speaking of which, don’t forget, you promised to help him in the bakery after school.”

“Of course, I look forward to it,” Adrien affirms, hardly able to contain his grin. Ladybug’s mother is sweet and funny, and her father is a baker—presumably the one who baked the most delicious croissants he’s ever eaten. He’ll get to _meet_ Ladybug’s father! Provided he can stay in this dream long enough, that is. He almost wouldn’t mind if this dream became his reality.

Except, _being_ the love of his life poses a small problem, so there’s some merit to waking up.

—

“Hey, Marinette.” The red-capped boy in the front row turns around, class assignment in hand.

“Hm?” Adrien tilts his head in what he hopes is an inviting way, leaning forward on his elbow and making eye contact to signal that his attention belongs to Hat Boy.

“—Whoa.” The boy freezes, gaping.

Adrien’s eyebrows lift, and he glances over his shoulder briefly, wondering what caused the boy’s reaction.

“No, no, it’s just—” The boy waves his hand dismissively. “Forget it. It’s just, your eyes looked really intense there for a moment. Like, La Mode-cover girl intense.”

“Oh.” Adrien blinks, not quite sure if this is a good thing or a bad thing. He makes a mental note to relax his facial expressions so as not to scare people. He lets his face melt into a sheepish grin and rubs the back of his neck. “Sorry.”

“Ah—never mind that.” For some reason, Hat Boy seems nervous now, and instead of making direct eye contact, he’s only stealing glances. “Just wondered what you put for this one.” He points at a question on his worksheet.

—

“Wow, _this_ is where we have lunch?” Adrien gasps without thinking as he steps into the cafeteria to see light streaming in through the angled windows, making it look like a picturesque greenhouse from a Ghibli film.

Alya stops in her tracks and grasps Adrien’s shoulder. “Marinette, what’s gotten into you today?”

“I was just kidding!” Adrien attempts to cover his mistake. Obviously this isn’t _Marinette’s_ first time seeing the school cafeteria. “All I meant was that it was looking extra pretty today with the sun coming in like that.”

“It looks like this every day,” Alya mutters, looking around to see what’s so special.

“Anyway…” Adrien grins and throws a glance over his shoulder at the self-serve area, where students are selecting small plates of yet-unidentified but very enticing and colorful foods. Is that a quiche he spies? “Come on, I’m starving! Aren’t you?”

He slips from Alya’s grasp and heads toward the self-serve area, eager to investigate what else is available.

“I guess?” Alya trails after her ten-times-more-hyper-than-usual friend.

—

Adrien has to admit the food doesn’t _taste_ better than what his personal chef makes, but the fact that he can eat it in such abundant company makes it _far_ more enjoyable.

“—Marinette what she thinks,” the short-haired blonde girl finishes saying, and all eyes turn to Adrien expectantly.

“What?” he asks, realizing he’s been spacing out, paying attention to everyone and no one all at once. He blinks. “What I think about what?”

“Who do _you_ think would win if they ever had to fight each other?” Alya prompts.

“Between?”

“Ladybug and Chat Noir, of course.” Alya drums her fingers on her arm. “Neither of them akumatized _or_ hit by akuma powers, though. Just Lucky Charm vs. Cataclysm, yo-yo vs. staff.”

Adrien’s eyes widen. Do they really talk about this type of thing at school? “They’d never fight each other,” he answers with certainty.

“Yeah, but what if they _did?”_ a hulking boy in all black asks.

“Well…” Adrien purses his lips, thinking. “If this were a fight of ‘who’s cooler,’ I’d have to say—”

“She’s gonna say Chat Noir—she _always_ says Chat,” a girl with long, purple-tipped hair mumbles.

“—Ladybug,” Adrien finishes.

He doesn’t notice Ladybug’s friends’ reactions. He’s stuck on what the purple haired girl said. Ladybug really thinks Chat Noir is cool? She _always_ says…?

Reason might argue, _of course,_ who would pick themselves? But it makes his chest tingle nonetheless.

—

A text pings Ladybug’s phone on the walk home from school.

Tikki told him the code after he pretended to have forgotten, so he knows how to open it. He feels guilty reading Ladybug’s messages—it feels like snooping—but he figures playing the role thoroughly and not ignoring her friends would be the more noble thing to do, so he sets aside his reservations.

 **Nino:** _hey marinette u still at school?_

Who is this Nino? Adrien tries to remember the names of Ladybug’s classmates, but the only one he remembers is Alya, after glimpsing it on the cover of his desk-neighbor’s notebook during class. The rest have all blurred together.

He shrugs and texts back.

 **Marinette:** _No, sorry, I left already. Why, do you need something? I can come back._

The response comes almost immediately.

 **Nino:** _haha duuude look at u texting all proper_ _  
_**Nino:** _jk it’s cute_

‘Cute’? Adrien huffs and glares at the phone. This ‘Nino’ fellow is almost certainly a guy, and guys are not allowed to call Ladybug ‘cute’ unless their name is both Adrien and Chat Noir.

But anyway—he takes a deep breath—this is only a dream. He responds calmly in lowercase.

 **Marinette:** _so, should i come back?_

 **Nino:** _naw don’t worry about it, seeya tmrw_

… Ah well. Adrien slips the phone into Ladybug’s side bag, vaguely curious but not too concerned.

—

“I’m sorry, but… I don’t remember how.” Adrien stares at the pat of dough in front of him. He’s supposed to be transforming it into a tart shell, but he has no clue where to start, and he’s been so terrified of admitting it that he’s been staring at it for the past five minutes, panicking.

“What’s that, darling?” Ladybug’s father’s voice booms, and suddenly his colossal presence is looming over Adrien’s shoulder.

“I… forgot how to mould a tart shell.” Adrien forces his mouth to form the words, and despite Ladybug’s father’s warmth, he almost expects a one-eighty switch to wrath, like every time Adrien has to deliver bad news to his own father.

“Ohh, not to worry, my darling girl!” Ladybug’s father laughs, clapping a hand on Adrien’s shoulder. “You must be so busy at school, I can’t expect you to remember everything! Maybe you should go rest and focus on your studies. I’ll be fine by myself.”

“N-no! That’s okay. I mean, I can help—I _want_ to help,” Adrien says in a rush. “Could you just… show me again, please?”

“Of course, my dear. Just watch and learn.” Ladybug’s father lifts the scalloped mould, places the pat of dough inside, and starts to press it against the mould with his thumbs.

He smiles at Adrien while he does it, and Adrien’s anxiety ebbs.

As he watches, he remembers this is a dream. He’s been so caught up in everything, and the day has stretched on so long, he almost forgot.

He hopes Ladybug’s real life is something like this, though. She deserves to be surrounded by wonderful people, doing wonderful things.

—

The next time Adrien wakes, he is in his own bed, and the soft beep of his alarm is going off near his head. Switching it off, he sits up, brow furrowed. For a long time, he looks out the window with his thoughts turned inward, chasing the bright, warm images that linger in his mind like pleasant phantasms.

He can still see the events of the day he dreamt of—Ladybug’s room, Ladybug’s kwami, Ladybug’s sweet mother, Ladybug’s classmates, that glorious, sunlit cafeteria, Ladybug’s immense father with a heart of gold.

Yet, the memories seem so far away, as if the events happened in his childhood. The more he thinks about them, the more the memories twist away from his consciousness, replaced by the sight of the garish morning piercing through his uncovered windows, streaking his floor with black shadows.

He feels an empty disappointment and lost certainty, underlying the sinking sense that this is exactly what he expected would happen.

“Plagg?” he calls out, just to be sure. The familiar rustle to his left is a small relief.

“Too early,” Plagg whines, floating over and settling on the comforter over Adrien’s knee. His mouth widens in a catlike yawn.

“I just had the most amazing dream,” Adrien sighs mournfully.

“Why do you sound sad about it, then?”

“Because it’s over and I’m forgetting.” Adrien frowns. “It was about Ladybug.”

“What’s new?” Plagg snickers. _Here we go again. At least it’ll spice up life a bit._

It’s only after Adrien has gotten dressed and is grabbing his books that he sees the neon-yellow post-it note stuck to the open music book on his piano. A note he has _no memory_ of leaving there.

He rushes over and snatches it up. On it, in a feminine, loopy script, are written the words: **Are you real? —Marinette.**

Adrien stares at the note, scrunches his brow, and turns it over as if doing so might yield answers. The details of his dream are fuzzy, but without a doubt, the name matches. Even the handwriting looks familiar. “Wait… _what?!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! What did you think? For some reason, I feel very nervous to post this story. I'd love to hear your thoughts and impressions.
> 
> The title means "seed of you" in French. I titled it in French because it sounds less innuendo-laden than the English equivalent. In a later and more relevant chapter, I'll explain the significance of the title.
> 
> A huuuuge thank you to everyone who helped beta/proofread this chapter: Shiro, [Sunny](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ominousunflower/), [Rin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/penguinproduction05), [Kathy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KatyaDarlink), and [Elcie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/miraculous_elcie).


	2. Are You Real?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Marinette suspects her subconscious of mischief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Thank you so much for reading this story! I hope you enjoy this next part. It's the same day as the one described in the last chapter, but from Marinette's point of view.
> 
>  **Heads Up:** To anyone who read the first chapter quite early after I posted it, I added a bit more to the last scene, so you might want to go back and read that before you move on. It's only about half a page worth of text, right at the end.

“Adrien. Adrien!”

The unfamiliar name echoes in Marinette’s mind as she opens her eyes. She isn’t sure if she really heard it or if it’s a remnant from her dream until an unexpected face looms in her field of vision.

It’s a woman with glasses and dark hair streaked in red, and she does not look happy.

“Thank goodness you’re awake,” the woman snaps, pushing her glasses up her nose. “Hurry and get dressed. How did you sleep through your alarm? You’re late for your lessons!”

Groggily, Marinette pieces together that the bomb she thought she was defusing in her dream must have been her phone going off. But who is this woman?

“Who are—what—” Marinette sits up in bed, jaw dropping in alarm as she realizes she does not recognize her surroundings. The room is gigantic, like an airport terminal. It looks polished and high-tech, sort of like the Men in Black headquarters. _Wait._ Has she been abducted and brought to a supervillain’s— _Hawkmoth’s?!_ —high-tech lair?

Her hands come up to her ears to check for her miraculous, but her lobes are horrifyingly bare. She gasps, and her sense of dysphoria increases when the tips of short-cut hair brush her fingers.

“Is something wrong, Adrien?” The woman’s sharp, businesslike voice cuts through Marinette’s spiraling thoughts, reminding her that she isn’t alone. She brings her hands back down. It’s best to play it as cool as possible until she can figure out what’s going on.

“No, I’m fine,” Marinette answers, but it takes a second for her to realize the voice that speaks is her own—it’s rough and makes her chest vibrate.

Maybe an akuma hit her with its powers in the night—but even so, shouldn’t she still be in her own room? It’s more likely that she’s still dreaming. This has happened before—she’s had dreams within dreams within dreams, chains of waking up only to realize that she’s still asleep.

 _Yes… this must be a dream._ The mounting sense of panic subsides as Marinette latches onto this seed of reason. In this dream, she’s a kid who lives in a museum of a house with his strict mother. She’s seen much stranger.

“All right, well—I’ll be waiting for you downstairs,” the woman says distractedly, glancing down at a tablet as she makes her way to the door. “Don’t be long.”

“Yes, Mom,” Marinette responds in that peculiar, rough voice.

The sound of the door closing doesn’t come as Marinette expects. Instead, the woman reappears, bespectacled eyes flashing with unexpected intensity. Her attention is all on Marinette now. “What did you say?”

“… Yes … Mom?” Marinette repeats, more cautiously this time. She feels like she’s made a faux pas.

“Don’t mock me, Adrien.” The woman gives Marinette a sharp look and shuts the door behind herself.

Marinette screws up her face in confusion. She didn’t mean to mock. Is the woman not ‘Adrien’s’ mom?

Now that Marinette is alone, she’s free to explore her new dream persona. She reaches up to touch her throat, from which that rough voice came. Her neck feels long and sinewy. Her hand feels large and heavy, and her collarbones jut out more than she is used to. She sweeps her hand upward, tracing the angular jaw, plunging her fingers into feather-light locks cropped around her ears in what feels like a jagged, tousled cut.

“I’m a… boy?” she rasps. The fact is obvious, but she’s having a hard time grappling with it. Patting down her chest, she comes in contact with the lean musculature of an active teenage boy and shudders. The details are all so vivid, so realistic. There’s even a _smell_ in the air—a funky odor, like feet. Marinette sniffs under her arms, then lifts one socked foot to her nose to sniff that. An amused puff of air escapes her nose— _What kind of weirdo sleeps in socks?_

Anyway, all she can smell is soap and detergent.

 _This is just like those strange dreams where my toenails grow long, or my teeth fall out,_ Marinette reasons, trying to keep calm. _It may feel real and scary now, but it’ll all go back to normal. I’ll wake up in my own bed, with my own body._

Scooting and scooting until she finally reaches the edge of the ample bed, Marinette gets out. As soon as her feet touch the floor, she understands the reason for the socks… the coolness of the floor permeates the thin fabric, pressing a chill into her bones.

The two-story ceiling-to-floor windows naturally compel her attention, and with a start she realizes the view is not unfamiliar.

As Ladybug, she has become well-acquainted with Paris’ geography from a bird’s eye view. Without a doubt, she is currently looking straight across at the roofs of the apartments behind the school, which allows her to pinpoint her current location: _the Agreste mansion._

Now that she’s thinking about it, Marinette does vaguely recall something about Gabriel having a model son named Adrien. She mostly only pays attention to Gabriel’s women’s clothing, so aside from the name ‘Adrien’ ringing a bell, she doesn’t know much about him. Why would she dream about him?

Maybe she fell asleep reading a fashion magazine. Marinette tries to recall, but her mind is fuzzy, as if being in the dream world has blocked off her episodic memories of the real world.

Anyway, there’s no way Adrien could _really_ live in the mansion. Wouldn’t Marinette have met him by now? She’s lived a mere block away since birth, on the corner of the Place des Vosges, but she has never seen a teenage boy going in or out of the Agreste mansion. The real Adrien probably goes to a boarding school or something.

“Ahhh, it was nice to sleep in today,” a drawly voice yawns, and Marinette jumps with a faint shriek when she sees a small, black orb rise into view from somewhere near the bed.

On closer inspection, it isn’t an orb. It’s a kwami. A black kwami that looks suspiciously like a cat.

“C-Chat Noir?!” Marinette cries in shock, her voice going high-pitched. Has he invaded her subconscious _this_ much, that she’s begun to dream about him?

At least the kwami serves as proof that this is most _definitely_ a dream and not an akuma. In what world is Chat Noir a _fashion model_ who happens to be the son of Gabriel Agreste and secretly lives down the street from her? Marinette laughs aloud at the absurdity of it.

“What’s gotten into you, kid?” The kwami seems to have procured what appears to be a wedge of brie or camembert out of thin air. So that’s where the funky odor is coming from. “I’m usually not one to nag, but you’ve been taking your sweet time, and Nathalie might come barging in here again if you don’t hurry up.”

 _Nathalie, huh?_ So that’s the woman’s name. Apparently not Adrien’s mom.

“Okay, okay, I’m hurrying,” Marinette says in Adrien’s voice, beginning to enjoy the tenor hum in her throat. It’s a nice voice, even though it’s a bit unnerving that it’s hers at the moment. She wrinkles her nose as another waft of the cheese smell enters her nostrils. “Do you have more of that cheese somewhere?”

“Why, you finally want some?” The kwami does a loop-de-loop, smirking.

“No, thanks.” Marinette makes a face. “It just kinda smells.”

The kwami takes in a deep breath and lets out a satisfied sigh. “And it’s a beaauuutiful smell.”

“Blech.” Marinette mock-gags, then realizes she needs to use the toilet. So weird for a dream… and awkward, considering the new anatomy that she can sense but is trying not to think about. She spots a set of ajar white double doors that look like they lead to a bathroom.

Walking feels funny. She’s always had long, slender legs, but now they feel even longer than usual, and her feet are too big.

When she catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror, she gasps slightly. She—or rather, he, the boy whose body she is borrowing—is beautiful, like a figure from a Renaissance painting. His golden hair, tousled slightly, falls across his cheekbones and forehead, framing a face that boasts cheeks flushed pink from sleep and brilliant green eyes. Marinette reaches up a hand to touch that gorgeous face.

He _does_ look familiar. It makes sense that a pretty face would take root in her memory and result in this ridiculous dream.

As an experiment, Marinette finger-combs her hair across her forehead, smirks, and salutes at the mirror. It looks so much like Chat that she bursts out laughing. She gives her subconscious a mental pat on the back for managing to combine Chat Noir’s face with that of a teen model.

A knock sounds on the door.

“Nathalie again,” the kwami warns from the other room in a bored tone.

“All right, all right— _I’M COMING!”_ Marinette cries, hopefully loud enough to be heard through the door, and shuts herself in the bathroom to get on with the awkward business.

—

 _Lessons,_ Nathalie had said. Since it doesn’t _feel_ like this dream is coming to an end anytime soon and there’s no epic quest for her to undertake, Marinette decides to play along with what seems unusually mundane.

Still feeling slightly traumatized from the bathroom experience, she finds a bookbag on Adrien’s computer chair and slips in the neat stack of school textbooks sitting on his desk. The giant LED screen set into his wall is flanked by rows of fencing and basketball trophies. Marinette rolls her eyes. Pretentious rich people. Though she has to admit the zip line and climbing wall are pretty cool.

After Plagg mocks her for almost walking out shoeless, she finally leaves the room with the bag slung over her shoulder, dressed in a black tee-shirt, jeans, and _orange shoes_ that make her feel like a clown. It’s odd to wear shoes indoors, but then again, a house that feels like a museum is also odd.

She saunters down the magnificent curving steps that lead down from Adrien’s bedroom door, impressed by the interior design her mind has invented for the inside of the Agreste mansion. It’s stately and severe, but still aesthetically pleasing and potentially inspiring for a clothing line. It’s a pity she’ll probably forget the details when she wakes up.

She spies the woman—Nathalie—sitting at a vast dining table through a set of double doors, swiping her fingers across a tablet screen in front of her.

Marinette pauses in the doorframe. “Um—excuse me, Nathalie. I’m going to school now,” she announces. Adrien isn’t a real student at Françoise Dupont, but if dream geography matches the real world, the school is so close that she can walk there.

Nathalie looks at her as if she’s said something ludicrous. “Very funny, Adrien,” she says without a hint of humor in her voice. “Sit down, let’s begin your lessons. We’re already an hour behind schedule. You’ll have to eat while we study, today.”

Marinette notices a plate with a couple small croissants and a sliced orange on the table.

“I’m… homeschooled,” she says, changing the question to a statement last minute in a half-hearted attempt to stay in character.

“Of course,” Nathalie says dryly, letting on from the tension in her voice that she’s beginning to lose her patience. “Take a seat.”

Marinette pulls open the seat, which feels too heavy, and the muffled drag of the chair legs across the polished hardwood floor echoes uncomfortably through the dining hall. Sliding into it, she extracts the textbooks from her bag one by one.

The dream starts feeling like a nightmare as the lessons drag on painfully. She keeps having to ask questions about things she’s probably supposed to know, and getting answers wrong. Nathalie uses a tone with her as if she’s a small child hearing explanations for the fifth time. Marinette does have a penchant for distraction in class, but she picks up material quickly, and her marks are usually good. _These_ lessons, however, make her feel like she’s several grades behind.

“Is something the matter, Adrien?” Nathalie interrupts calculus to ask after Marinette’s fifth consecutive wrong answer. “I don’t know where this sudden delinquency came from, but I don’t want to have to give a negative report to your father.”

“I’m only in trigonometry,” Marinette whimpers. “When is this dream going to end?”

Nathalie gives her a look as if she’s contemplating sending her to a psychiatrist, then squeezes her eyes shut and pinches the bridge of her nose, shaking her head. “This is no time for games, Adrien. Let’s try again…”

Mathematics scrapes by like a dull, rusty blade chopping wood.

History goes better, as Nathalie lectures and Marinette takes notes, asking a question here and there in an effort to seem engaged.

She finds herself staring out the window, missing the short walk from home to school and the voices of other kids. Her mind is beginning to tune out Nathalie’s drone. She feels sleepy and listless, and bites into an orange slice to wake herself up with its tanginess. She hasn’t taken a bite of croissant yet, but the orange makes her stomach rumble, and she realizes her dream avatar is actually surprisingly hungry.

“Adrien?” Nathalie’s voice cuts through Marinette’s thoughts, and she straightens up.

“Yes, Nathalie?”

“I asked you to explain Nietzsche’s concept of Apollonianism and Dionysianism.”

“Uhh…”

As Marinette stumbles through an ad-libbed explanation, watching Nathalie’s expression descend from disapproval to irritation, she decides that homeschooling _sucks._ It’s boring, and she can’t even space out without being noticed. She’d die having to endure this every day without Alya for company and Miss Bustier’s immersive learning activities.

If Chat Noir really were a homeschooled model, the way he turns up at akuma battles so chipper would make perfect sense. She can feel the latent energy building up in her and she wants to let it out.

She twists the ring around the long, slender finger of Adrien’s right hand.

It’s like being a prisoner in a palace.

Over the past year, Marinette _has_ noticed Chat Noir dropping pessimistic comments about his family and home life. Nothing that would endanger his identity, but enough that she can surmise he prefers to be in the suit. Maybe her brain has collected the tidbits and spun them into this scenario.

She hopes it’s far off-the-mark, but part of her sympathizes and regrets ribbing him for fooling around.

—

“Ahh, I’m finally free!” Marinette exclaims, pirouetting into Adrien’s entertainment-center room. “Feeling up for a jog, Plagg?”

“Not now, my favorite show comes on in five minutes.” Plagg drops the remote control on the couch and begins hopping on it to press buttons. The television comes to life.

Marinette sighs in resignation. She’s onto Plagg—it didn’t take her long to figure out his character. “You’re just being lazy, aren’t you?”

“You’ve got work to do,” Plagg retorts.

Marinette rolls her eyes, loath to admit that he’s right, even though failing to fulfill obligations in a dream seems inconsequential.

According to the schedule on Nathalie’s tablet, Marinette’s afternoon is open, to be used for three things: homework, Chinese revision, and piano practice. She isn’t especially eager to dive back into that day’s academic material, and Chinese seems daunting, so she picks what seems like the ‘fun option’… piano.

She slides into the bench and skims her fingers across the glossy keys. “… Hmm… it’s been a while,” she muses aloud.

From general music class in primary school, she vaguely recalls where C is on a piano, which is enough to help her figure out the rest of the notes. She can sort of read music from when she took a year of flute lessons… but the score on the rack is much more complicated than anything she’s played before.

Plagg lands on the piano’s music rack, still with a wedge of cheese in haul as if it’s part of him. “You’re not Adrien, are you?”

Marinette starts in mild surprise, then shakes her head. There’s no point in trying to hide it.

“Well, _that_ explains why you’ve been acting so weird today.” Plagg pops the entire hunk of cheese in his mouth and lets out a foul-smelling belch after he’s swallowed it down.

“Eugh, excuse _you.”_ Marinette swats the air in front of her. She’s pretty sure the smell of cheese has suffused Adrien’s clothing and belongings, and she’d be able to recognize civilian Chat Noir instantly by smell alone if they were ever to meet… _if_ this were all real, that is.

“Lemme give you a tip,” Plagg says. “It’s good we didn’t go out, ‘cause you’re gonna need every minute of study and practice to pull off a convincing Adrien.”

“Why do I need to do a good job of pretending? None of this is going to matter when I wake up.” Marinette shrugs flippantly, then adds in a mutter, “Though this has got to be the longest and most tedious dream I’ve ever had.”

“Dream?” Plagg scoffs. “This is no dream, Little Bug.”

Marinette’s eyes widen at the appellation. “What did you call—how did you know?” Then a moment later she smacks her forehead. “Oh, of course you know, this is _my_ dream.”

Her forehead stings, which is unexpected. _Aren’t you not supposed to feel pain in dreams?_ Her brain must be doing a very good job of tricking her.

“All right, don’t believe me, then.” Plagg floats off toward the television, shaking his head. He knows it’s futile to try to convince her this is real as long as she thinks it’s still a dream. She’ll figure it out on her own, eventually.

He watches Marinette squint at the music sheet some more, depressing keys one by one with her index fingers, before he decides to take pity on her and comes back.

“This one’s middle C,” he says, landing on a white key. “It looks like this on the page.” He drifts to the sheet music and points at a note.

“I remember that much, but…” Marinette’s forehead is still creased with concentration. “How is this piece even supposed to sound? And what does _this_ mean again?” She points at the key signature.

“It’s in the key of D-flat major.” At Marinette’s confused look, Plagg explains, “That means the first note in the scale is D-flat, and there are five flats in the scale. B, E, A, D, and G.” He jumps to each key as he mentions it.

“How do you know so much about music?” Marinette asks.

“In case you’ve forgotten, I’ve had a front-row seat to the entire history of music,” Plagg boasts. “Plus, one of my kittens was Franz Liszt.”

Marinette does a double-take. “Franz _Liszt?_ As in the composer?”

“Yup! Where do you think Lisztomania came from?” Plagg preens, as if he is very proud of his achievement.

“Liszto-what?” Marinette cocks her head.

“Lisztomania. That’s what they used to call the way crowds reacted to Franz whenever he had a concert. They’d go absolutely _insane.”_ Plagg cackles at the memory.

Marinette narrows her eyes. “What does that have to do with destruction?”

“You think Cataclysm is the only thing I can do?” Plagg puffs out his chest and clears his throat. “Destruction happens when order breaks down into chaos—that’s the power of the black cat. The ladybug does the opposite—brings order out of disorder, which is creation.”

“So, that chaotic energy that followed Liszt around was your fault,” Marinette hums in understanding.

“Yup!” Plagg grins. “They call him the world’s first rock star. That’s my kitten.”

It’s bizarre to hear Plagg talk about a larger-than-life composer as ‘his kitten.’ It shouldn’t come as a huge surprise, though, since Joan of Arc, Heracles, and other notable figures in history have already been confirmed as former miraculous holders. Nevertheless, Marinette’s sense of scale is always thrown off whenever a reminder comes up. “Does _Chat Noir_ know about this?”

“Of course,” Plagg returns, grooming one of his long whiskers. “Adrien and I have no secrets.”

Marinette would never admit it, but she feels jealous of the kwami. _She_ and Chat Noir are supposed to have no secrets—except their identities. That’s an ideal that comes attached to being best friends, which is what she considers him… but she’s never been aware until now how untrue the ideal is in their case.

Rather, they share _one_ big secret and otherwise know next to nothing about one another. Whether this is a dream or not, she’s now certain of that much, at least. The thought sours her chest like rotten milk.

“Why didn’t he tell me?” Marinette sulks.

“Kind of hard to swap trivia in the middle of a fight, isn’t it?” Plagg points out.

Marinette presses her lips together. She hasn’t told Chat Noir much of what she’s learned from Tikki or Alya either, so she has no right to feel upset about him keeping information from her. The fact that he can often read her thoughts has led her to believe they know one another intimately, but how close are they really?

The thought shakes her to the core.

She realizes, also, that _she_ is the one who’s constantly rejected his attempts to create opportunities to get to know one another better. She’s never seen why it would be necessary… but maybe it wouldn’t hurt to find out what his favorite color is, or what type of food he likes to eat. Maybe they _should_ be able to talk about whether their days were good or bad, how they’re doing in school, and how they feel about being superheroes.

“So…” Marinette shakes off her sense of discontent, realizing they’ve gone way off-topic. “How does this piece go?”

“It’s easier if you start with the right hand.” Plagg taps out the melody line slowly, jumping from key to key. It sounds vaguely familiar. Marinette copies the first few notes.

“Not bad!” Plagg praises, applauding.

Marinette smiles, her appreciation for Plagg growing. He seemed curmudgeonly at first, but she’s finding him to be a softie at heart.

“Why don’t you look up a YouTube video?” Plagg suggests. “One of those synaesthesia ones so you can see which fingers you’re supposed to use. I can’t really show you that.”

Marinette nods, fetches Adrien’s phone from his desk, and holds it out to Plagg. “Password?”

 _“You’re_ gonna have to put it in, so pay attention.” He traces the lock pattern across the screen with a tiny paw.

“I feel a little guilty knowing Adrien’s password,” Marinette admits as she mimics the gesture.

“This is nothing. You know _much_ more intimate things about him now,” Plagg snickers.

“Plagg!” Marinette hisses, heat climbing to her cheeks.

“What? It’s true.” Plagg sticks out his tongue. “Like what kind of toothpaste he uses.”

“Oh, sure, of course that’s what you meant.” Scrunching her face into a pout, Marinette opens a browser window and types in _chopin raindrop prelude._ “Anyway… thanks for the help. I’m so hopeless.” She sighs.

“You’ll be fine, Little Bug.”

“Marinette,” she corrects.

Plagg’s little fangs glint as he grins. “All right, Buguinette. If you still have questions after that video, you know where to find me—cozying up with some cheese in front of the TV.”

“I see now. You’ve left me to YouTube so you could get off the hook,” Marinette accuses playfully as he zips away.

“Looks like you’ve got me figured out,” Plagg chuckles from the sofa.

Marinette smiles to herself. She’s glad Chat Noir has at least one good friend in his civilian life, even if he isn’t human.

—

An hour into practice, Marinette realizes she’s begun thinking of all this as Chat Noir’s _real_ life. As if this is all really happening. But it isn’t. It’s only a dream… right? There’s _no way_ the actual Chat Noir is Gabriel Agreste’s son.

Except, she isn’t so sure. It all _feels_ so real, so vivid. Even in lucid dreams, there’s always something outrageous that happens to tip off the dreamer that it’s all in their head. So far, the day has felt like a confusing, bewildering, then boring, but otherwise perfectly believable day.

 _This is no dream, Little Bug,_ Plagg said earlier.

She pretended to dismiss his words at the time, but they’re still stuck in her head, lodged somewhere between belief and disbelief. They sit in her mind, an unopened box of possibility.

What if this isn’t a dream? Why is it happening, and what does it mean? When will it stop?

Marinette skips the Chinese, but she spends a great deal of time in front of the piano, trying to get at least the skeleton of one piece under her belt. She does her best with his homework and leaves it with his books in a neat stack, the way she found them that morning… just in case.

Her suspicions are high by the time night falls and she feels her eyelids growing heavy—when has she ever spent an entire day in a dream and gotten sleepy? She decides to leave a note for Adrien.

 _Just in case_.

She writes it in black marker on a bright yellow post-it note and sticks it on the music book left open on his piano. If this is a dream, the note will disappear with her memories. But if it isn’t...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Thank you so much for reading. What did you think? I'd love to hear from you!
> 
> Might be a few days before the next update, since I need to edit drastically. I hope to get it up by Wednesday at least.
> 
> Thank you so much to Shiro for betaing!
> 
> **References:**
> 
> [Lisztomania](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lisztomania) (which also happens to be a [rock song](https://youtu.be/uF3reVVUbio) by Phoenix)
> 
> [Chopin Op. 28 No. 15 (Raindrop Prelude)](https://youtu.be/Sh03YXzvDF4) \- the piece Marinette works on. It's not actually that complicated, and Marinette can't play it fast at all, but she's able to stumble through the notes after spending hours figuring it out. Fun fact, at one point when Adrien puts on his "decoy music" in order to escape out the window (can't recall what episode it was), this is the piece displayed on the screen of his phone. The audio doesn't match, though.


	3. Seed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marinette and Adrien seek answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! My apologies for posting this later than I said I would. This particular chapter goes into the 'mechanics' and I wanted to make sure it was all explained well and that the concept was solid. Many thanks to my wonderful betas, [Elcie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/miraculous_elcie) and Shiro, for all their help on this chapter. Hope you enjoy.

Marinette places her bag down on her desk, still chewing on a bite of croissant, and plops into her seat. Despite the fact that she’s still finishing her breakfast, she’s on time for once. She probably has that weird dream about Chat Noir last night to thank for her early waking.

Alya looks her up and down. “Hey, girl, feeling better?”

Marinette tilts her head in question. “What do you mean? I’m fine.”

“Are you?” Doubt tinges Alya’s features. “I was really worried about you. It was like you had amnesia yesterday or something—you were all disoriented and confused. It was a little spooky.”

 _Yesterday? As in Sunday?_ Marinette’s confusion deepens. “I didn’t even see you yesterday.”

“Back to pigtails today, huh?” Kim remarks as he passes Marinette’s desk on the way to his own. “Too bad, it looked cute down.”

Marinette watches his receding back, perplexed, before turning back to Alya. “What’s he talking about?”

“Girl…” Alya crosses her arms. “Now you’ve _really_ got me worried. You don’t remember anything? Did you hit your head or something?”

“No,” Marinette answers defensively. “Is this a prank? It’s Monday! We didn’t even have school yester—”

“Marinette, it’s _Tuesday!”_ Alya lightly smacks her palm on the desk to emphasize the word ‘Tuesday.’ “If you don’t believe me, check your phone.”

Warily, Marinette reaches into her bag and takes out her phone.

The display reads _Tuesday, April 19th._

She squints at the screen in disbelief, a sense of dread crawling up her spine. “What?”

Alya rolls her eyes. “Seriously, girl—I know you’ve got your head in the clouds sometimes, but you really take it to the extreme. I _hope_ you’re okay today. At least you remembered where you sit this time.”

“Of course! I told you I’m fine.” Marinette laughs weakly, trying to appear calm while her mind is racing. She _lost a day._ If she really lost a day, that would mean the dream _wasn’t_ a dream after all. That would mean Chat Noir really is the son of— _Gabriel Agreste?!_ The thought resurfaces along with a sense of absurdity, and she suddenly questions her unreliable memory.

If Marinette was in his body, who was in hers? Did they swap places? Or are there more people involved? She shudders involuntarily, feeling strangely violated.

She needs to talk to him. They need to figure this out. Marinette is confused and disoriented, and the line between memory and imagination is starting to blur.

“So,” Alya says, interrupting Marinette’s mental spiral, “looking forward to the physics test?”

Marinette’s stomach drops. She’s completely forgotten about the test. “Oh my gosh, that’s today! Let me see your notes.”

Alya gives her a quizzical look. “I should be asking to see _your_ notes from the review session yesterday, Miss Know-it-all—didn’t know you were such a whiz at physics. Figured you’d be excited to ace this thing.”

If the review session was yesterday, she was in Chat Noir’s body, so that would mean it was someone else… _Chat Noir… ?_

Marinette can feel her pulse speeding as she pulls out her physics notebook and hastily flips to the last page. There are three additional pages penned in a neat, running script that is by no stretch of the imagination her own.

Heart pounding against her chest, Marinette curls an arm around the notebook to partly shield it from view and leans in to get a closer look. The penmanship is immaculate and graceful, every letter exactly the same height and slanting at the exact same angle. His notes are written in outline format, each new topic numbered, lettered, and indented in a clear hierarchy.

She’s _seen_ this handwriting. Without a doubt, it’s _him._

And yet—the realization gives her cognitive dissonance. The clean-cut, neat, methodical style doesn’t match her mental image of Chat Noir. She always considered him free-spirited, flamboyant, and a bit chaotic. The type of boy who would keep his room messy and relished poking his toe out of line. The notes match the boy with the pristine room, everything tucked away in its place, every minute of his life assigned to a task.

It made sense when she thought it was a dream, a bizarre concoction of her mind meshing images from a magazine with her partner.

Marinette realizes, then, that Chat Noir is everything Adrien isn’t allowed to be.

She traces the letters on the page, trying to beckon the memories of that other life—but they slip into the crevices of her mind like rainwater into pavement cracks, feeling less and less real by the moment. The letters under her fingers are the only proof that she hasn’t just imagined it all, and that even the lost day isn’t just her sanity slipping away.

“Wow, girl, I’d need a magnifying glass to read that,” Alya remarks over Marinette’s shoulder.

Marinette flinches and crosses her arms over the notebook.

Alya notices, of course. “Marineeette, what are you hiding?”

“N-nothing,” Marinette stammers, tips of her ears burning.

Alya gasps. “Does it have to do with a _boy?”_

Fresh heat flares to Marinette’s cheeks. “B-boy?! No! What boy? There’s no boy.”

“Oooooh!” Alya’s lips stretch into a devilish grin. “Don’t tell me you finally have a crush? Is _that_ why you were so distracted yesterday? You wrote about him in your notebook, didn’t you?”

 _“No,”_ Marinette says emphatically, sweeping the notebook off her desk and closing it around her index finger. “I do _not_ have a crush!”

“Riiiight, that’s so convincing.” Alya smirks. “Come on, you can tell me! What are besties for?”

“Alyaaa,” Marinette whines. _“Stop.”_

Nino turns around slightly in the front row, enough to glimpse Marinette out of his peripheral vision.

Marinette lifts a hand to wave and grin, glad for any diversion from Alya’s attention.

Nino grins back, cheeks visibly coloring.

Alya raises an eyebrow, but Miss Bustier’s appearance precludes any prying.

—

“I very much hope you will redeem yourself today,” Nathalie says icily as Adrien sets his stack of books on the dining table. “If we haven’t met the benchmark by the end of the week, I will have no choice but to tell your father.”

Adrien looks at her in confusion as he takes a seat. “What do you mean?”

A rare flicker of hurt crosses Nathalie’s expression before her mask of professionalism returns. “Adrien, if you’re unhappy, I’d appreciate it if you could _talk_ to me instead of showing impudence. I’m here to help you. I’m not your enemy.”

 _Impudence?_ Adrien hasn’t done anything recently. He’s been keeping up with his studies dutifully, doing everything his father expects. Nathalie has been happy with him, he thought.

Unless… there’s something he missed because he wasn’t here.

His mind strays to the note in his pocket. An outrageous idea takes root in his mind: _He and Ladybug somehow switched places._ It doesn’t make any sense, but neither does a floating supernatural being that gives him the power to destroy the Eiffel Tower with a touch.

“I’m not unhappy, Nathalie.”

“Then let’s do our best to get caught up today, all right?” Nathalie gives Adrien a faint smile.

“Yes, Nathalie.” Adrien cracks open his European history book to the chapter they had left off on last Friday.

Nathalie glances over, frowns and reaches over to flip to the next chapter.

Adrien’s brows rise. “Hm.” Supporting evidence.

“Yes?”

Adrien shakes his head, playing innocent. “Nothing.”

He isn’t surprised anymore when he finds pages of notes written in the same cute script as the post-it in his pocket. He reads them in between jotting down key points from a text he’s reading.

 _The table is huge. Do they have banquets here?,_ one line says.

 _What will happen if I fall asleep in a dream? Will I finally wake up?,_ says another.

Adrien snickers into his fist. Of course she still thought it was a dream. He’s only _now_ convinced that it wasn’t. Has she figured it out by now, too?

“Is something funny about Voltaire?” Nathalie inquires, eyebrow arching.

“No. I was just—reminded of a joke, that’s all. Sorry.” Adrien wipes the smile off his face.

Today, studies feel less lonely. Ladybug’s notes make him feel like he has a classmate.

—Not Ladybug. _Marinette._ Her name is Marinette.

Adrien’s lips form the name. _Marinette_ burrows itself into his mind and makes a home. The name that two loving parents and a circle of friends call, the name she stitches into her designs. _Ma-ri-nette._ Three perfect syllables—the flipside of _La-dy-bug._

Today, he can’t stop sighing, and has to excuse himself to the restroom to take out the yellow post-it note and look at her name until his heart is full and he can go back to learning.

 _Are you real?,_ she asked.

 _Yes, I’m real._ Every cell of his being is yearning to respond, but he has to force himself to sit still in the silence and chew on words that he doesn’t care about.

As much as he loves Ladybug and looks forward to opportunities to see her, he’s never wished for an akuma until today.

—

“Tikki, what’s happening between Chat Noir and me?” Marinette demands in a rush as soon as the door to the empty washroom closes.

The kwami drifts out of Marinette’s bag as she shuts them into a stall. Pulling out her physics notebook, she opens it to the pages Adrien wrote on, to reassure herself that the elegantly penned lines are still there.

Tikki sighs and asks, “What do you _think_ is happening?” Her tone is more cautious than testy—to check how much Marinette knows before proceeding with an explanation.

“We switched places, didn't we?” The words sound crazy as they slip out of Marinette’s mouth, but the last vestiges of doubt have almost entirely been wrung out of her. “This is his writing.”

Tikki’s eyes dart to the side, as if debating how honest to be, then she nods slowly. “I’m afraid so, Marinette.”

“But _why?_ And _how?”_

Tikki purses her lips. “It’s a bit complicated to explain, but I can tell you that this isn’t the first time it’s happened, though it _is_ rare. It’s because of the miraculous.”

“So this has happened to Ladybugs and Black Cats before?”

Tikki nods.

“What about other miraculous holders?” Marinette presses. 

“No—only Ladybugs and Black Cats.”

Marinette hums, processing this information. “Plagg _did_ know it was me right away… but why only Ladybugs and Black Cats? What’s so special about us?”

Tikki’s expression grows more serious. “I’d like to explain more, Marinette, but it’s too risky here. Wait until we get home, okay?”

“All right,” Marinette reluctantly agrees.

—

Up in her room during lunch, Marinette rests her elbows on her desk, watching Tikki squeeze two small blobs of paint onto a palette in front of her. “So, Chat Noir and I are connected because of the miraculous?”

“Yes,” Tikki answers. “Plagg’s power and mine are opposite—like these black and white paints. Positive and negative space. Sharp contrast between black and white creates tension in a design, but the more you mix them, the softer and more neutral the design becomes.”

Marinette nods. “I get what you’re saying, but what does that have to do with our powers?”

Tikki taps her chin. “Hmm. You know what a yin-yang symbol looks like, right?”

“Of course.”

“Well, you haven’t seen a miracle box yet, but the compartment where the Ladybug and Black Cat miraculous are usually stored is shaped like a yin-yang, and there’s a reason for that. You know how each section of the yin-yang has a dot of the opposite color?”

Marinette nods.

“Well, just like that, each of you has a seed of the other.”

Marinette blinks and attempts to piece the information together into a cohesive conclusion. “I have… Chat Noir… in me?”

“I know it sounds strange, but what it means is that as long as you wield the miraculous of the Ladybug and Black Cat, you and Chat Noir are inextricably bound,” Tikki explains. “Your energy is supposed to flow together and mix.”

“Do these swaps happen to _every_ Ladybug and Black Cat, then?”

Tikki shakes her head. “No. Usually, Ladybugs and Black Cats are close enough, even in civilian life, that their energy can mix freely. There are no swaps when that’s the case.”

“So, usually they know each other’s identities?” Marinette cocks her head, puzzled.

“No, not necessarily. In fact, usually they don’t—but Black Cats and Ladybugs naturally orbit one another, often on both sides of the mask.”

“So you’re saying that Chat Noir and I swapped because we’re _not_ like that?” Marinette worries her lip.

“Essentially, yes. There’s an imbalance in the energy flow, since you only meet as superheroes, and even then, only for short periods of time. The swaps are the miraculous’ way of correcting that imbalance.”

“Hmm…” Marinette drums her fingertips against her bottom lip, internalizing this knowledge. “Okay. I get it… sort of?”

“It’s like this.” Tikki dips a brush into the black paint, then pokes it into the white. A pinprick of black floats in the white glob of paint. “That spot of black is what you pick up from Chat Noir when you only see him for a few minutes during a battle. It’s like a seed. When your energy is kept too separate, the ‘seed’ manifests itself strongly, as a soul swap. If you interacted often enough for your lives to fully intermingle, whether in the mask or out of it, then your energy would balance out.”

Tikki swishes the brush between the two paint blobs until the crisp black and white separation isn’t visible anymore—there’s only one blob of grey.

“When your energies are mixed this way, your powers are most stable,” Tikki concludes. “This is the miraculous’ way of trying to achieve that stability.”

Marinette scrunches her brow. “Okay,” she says at last. “I guess that makes sense. But I thought we weren’t supposed to know each other’s identities. Isn’t it dangerous that now I know Chat Noir is—”

Marinette pauses. His name is on the tip of her tongue, but for some reason it’s slippery, like a fish that darts away from her fingers when she gets close to catching it.

As Marinette dives for her school bag to fetch her physics notebook, she misses the melancholy look in Tikki’s eyes. Hastily, she flips to the pages Chat Noir jotted notes on, grasping for any point of reference to jog her memory.

The small, elegant letters bring images and scenes to her mind, like a familiar scent—a sprawling dining table, black and white tiles, a stern governess—and the name comes back with them. “Adrien. His name is Adrien.”

Marinette realizes her heart is pounding. As if she’s slipped and almost fallen, barely catching herself in time.

“I wouldn’t worry about that, Marinette,” Tikki says guardedly.

Marinette frowns at the notes. His name is Adrien. But what is his last name? She vaguely remembers he’s the son of someone important, but she can’t remember who anymore.

—

“Plagg, did something happen yesterday? A weird akuma or something like that?” Adrien scrolls through the Ladyblog, his schoolwork shoved to the side of his desk and forgotten.

“No akuma,” Plagg confirms from the cheese cabinet, accompanied by sounds of bumping around, “but _something_ was wrong with you. I’m glad you’re back to normal now.”

“Yeah, ‘something was wrong’ as in, it wasn’t _me_ in my body?” Adrien turns a sharp look on Plagg, daring him to hide the truth that he’s now convinced of.

“Ahh, so you’ve figured out that was real.” Plagg appears with an entire wheel of camembert and plops it on Adrien’s desk, coming to settle atop it.

“Of course!” Adrien takes Marinette’s note out of his pocket. “This note is proof—and I lost a day. It must mean the dream was real—it was yesterday in Ladybug’s life.”

Plagg lets out a slow sigh. “Okay, okay, you’re right. You and Ladybug swapped places.”

Adrien gasps. Even though he already knew it, the confirmation from Plagg is at once exciting and terrifying. “What was it like with her? What did she do as me? What did she think of my life?”

 _“That’s_ what you want to know? Not why all this is happening?”

“I mean… I do want to know that, too.” Adrien’s cheeks color, embarrassed by his transparency. “So, what’s going on, Plagg?”

Plagg pops a wedge of cheese into his mouth, chews, and swallows before speaking. “Look, kid, you’re into physics, right?”

“Yeah?” Adrien affirms, wondering where Plagg is taking this.

“Weeell, the miraculous create an energy flow between you and Ladybug that’s a lot like a magnetic field,” he explains through another mouthful of cheese. “The Ladybug is positive, the Black Cat is negative.”

“So, we’re like opposite magnetic poles?”

“Yeah, you can think of it that way.”

Adrien narrows his eyes. “But why did we swap?”

“The energy between you and Ladybug is looking for a way to balance out—the same reason opposite magnetic poles attract. Since you only meet for a few minutes at a time during akuma battles and never see each other as civilians, the energy gets pent up and starts pulling harder.”

Adrien nods, waiting for Plagg to go on.

Plagg sets aside his half-eaten wedge of cheese, which tips Adrien off to the fact that the kwami is taking this conversation very seriously. “You know why the swap happened when you were asleep?”

“Why?” Adrien leans forward. 

“Have you ever dreamt about being someone else?” 

“Well… yeah.”

“Your sense of self lessens when you’re asleep. You lose your grip just enough to let that energy go shooting off wherever it wants to go—and that’s to Ladybug. Of course, the same thing’s happening on her end, too.”

“Okay, that’s weird,” Adrien mutters, “but I guess I get it. Are you saying it’s going to happen again, then?”

“Yup, probably.”

Adrien’s eyes widen. “How do we make it stop?”

Plagg smirks. “You’d have to spend more time with her, enough for your energy to mix and balance out.”

Adrien lets out a rueful laugh. “As much as I’d love to spend more time with Ladybug, you know I can’t.”

“I don’t _know_ that.” Plagg retorts. “You always do whatever your father says. I bet you’d get more freedom if you fought for it.”

Adrien scowls. “You weren’t around when I was younger—I _have_ fought, and it’s never worked out. He’d only crack down even harder if I tried to push the limits! I can’t risk getting trapped in here and not being able to go out when there’s an akuma.”

“Well, then you’re just gonna have to deal with the swaps. You liked it, didn’t you?” Plagg taunts.

Warmth rising to his cheeks, Adrien eyes fall to the note unfolded on the desk in front of him. He traces Marinette’s name, and a fond smile plays at his lips. Indistinct memories rise to the surface of his mind, like blurry images seen through water—a kiss on the cheek, soft words, laughter, cold dough between his fingers. “I mean, I _did,_ but… how long can we really keep that up? And what about her?”

“I guess we’ll have to see.” Plagg retrieves his half-eaten morsel of cheese and downs it in one gulp, acting unconcerned.

Troubled, Adrien turns absent-mindedly back to the Ladyblog while he considers his options.

If Ladybug lets him, he could hang around longer after akuma battles, or they could set up patrols. He could even make an effort to sneak out as a civilian to see her—but how can he keep doing that regularly?

The minutes of his day are neatly parceled out, and it’s difficult enough to sneak out masked as it is. As a civilian, his chances are even more slim. His father barely lets him visit Chloé, who is currently the only person on his “approved friend” list. He’s certain that if paparazzi caught him with an unknown girl in public, his father would never let him out of the house again.

He feels like he’s testing fate—spending money he doesn’t have, running on empty. Sooner or later, everything is going to blow up in his face, and he’s going to have to either give up the miraculous or risk losing it to Hawkmoth. Something needs to change. But what can he do?

He doesn’t want to say it out loud prematurely, but he’s considering bringing up public school again.

Idle fingers seeking for something to do while he continues to mull over these thoughts, he clicks to refresh the blog page.

This time, a new post appears on top, the title in all caps, announcing an akuma at the Trocadero, posted two minutes ago. Adrien jumps to his feet.

“Plagg, let’s go,” he urges, scanning the article for important background information. His heart leaps with exhilaration at the thought of running freely over the rooftops, doing cool tricks in the air, and seeing Ladybug _—Marinette._

“Just let me finish my—”

“Plagg, transform me,” Adrien says as he finishes skimming the last paragraph. He can’t contain the grin that spreads across his face as the magic sweeps over him.

Just before heading to the window wall, he swipes up the post-it note in his clawed fingers and zips it into his suit pocket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! What did you think?
> 
> Personally, I'm not too fond of reading about lore. This chapter felt necessary, though. It was a challenge to write, but I tried not to make it too heavy—I hope it was palatable and made sense.
> 
> I suppose the title of the story, Graine de toi (seed of you) makes sense now, too.


	4. Balancing Scales

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After an akuma battle, Ladybug and Chat Noir discuss what's happening to them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Nice to see you again. I'm sorry this chapter took so long for me to prepare. I had to entirely rewrite it because of things that had changed in earlier chapters. I'd like to give many thanks to my beta, Shiro, for their help. I hope you enjoy!

When Ladybug sees Chat Noir wave at her from atop the eastern wing of the Palais de Chaillot, an uncharacteristic nervousness seizes her. They meet like this two or three times a week, and ever since the first few fights when she was still getting used to the suit, she hasn’t felt this way. Tense or a little scared, maybe, with especially chaotic akumas. Nervous, though? It’s been a while, and this time she’s pretty sure it has nothing to do with the akuma and everything to do with Chat Noir himself.

And why shouldn’t she feel nervous around him? Everything between them has changed. They’ve _seen_ one another without the masks. She’s been _in him._

“Hey, Buguinette,” he greets as she lands beside him. It’s an old, familiar nickname, but this time it tugs at the back of her mind, a subtle hook of recognition. She recalls the image of black and white keys. _Did his kwami call me that?_

“Hey, Chaton.” The way her heart jumps to her throat is new. The way she can’t stop looking at him, as if she’s never properly seen him before, is new. The tightness in her chest, the urgency to _talk_ to him, is new.

“I think the Chessmaster’s waiting for us to make the first move, meaning we’re white,” Chat says, directing his gaze over the edge of the roof.

His words alert Ladybug to the fact that she’s distracted—she wasn’t thinking about strategy. They have a well-oiled routine to follow. _Battle first, everything else later._

Gathering her wits and giving in to the familiarity of their dynamic, she joins him at the edge of the roof. The esplanade has been converted into a giant chess board, set up with pieces in their starting locations. The pieces look disorderly, however—the pawns aren’t uniform, assuming slightly different poses. Ladybug squints to see if there’s any useful information to glean from them.

They all seem to be leaning forward with legs postured in various stages of mid-step, as if they were turned to stone while fleeing. Ladybug gasps. “The pieces are—” 

“Yup.” Chat nods. “They’re people.”

 _Great._ “I hope they won’t _literally_ attack each other,” Ladybug mutters.

“Guess we have no choice but to find out.” Chat turns to her with a grimace. “Even if they do, you have your miraculous cure.”

Ladybug nods, frowning. She hates when civilian lives get involved. She feels confident they’ll win this one, but the prospect of losing real people even temporarily is a sickening reminder that they _have_ to win.

Chat grins at her, confident and sunny. “Don’t worry, I’m great at chess—this’ll be an easy fight. Leave it to me, Milady.” 

The way Ladybug’s heart clenches and she feels dizzy when they hold eye contact is definitely new.

She finds herself believing him: Between the two of them, the akuma will be a piece of cake. They won’t fail. Her miraculous cure will work. These people will be safe.

The simple reassurance bolsters her spirit immensely.

—

Watching the first few pieces get smashed to pebbles sets Ladybug’s teeth on edge. Despite knowing that her cure will bring them back, she leans into the discomfort of knowing they’re real people—she doesn’t ever want to grow desensitized or complacent about the loss of human lives. Yet, in the grand scheme of things, it’s a tame fight. Relaxed, even.

Leaving Chat Noir to handle the game, Ladybug crouches on the roof of the Palais de Chaillot and scans the arena, paying close attention to the Chessmaster’s moves in search of potential anomalies that could give her a lead on the akuma’s hiding place.

A chess game is usually a high-tension, cerebral affair with long gaps of still silence in between moves, but Chat Noir seems determined to keep the mood light. He’s a blur of energy, dancing in between the rows of pieces, calling out his move while doing a handstand, taunting the Chessmaster while he’s deliberating his own—and Ladybug has to make a conscious effort not to let him distract her.

The Chessmaster, clothed in all white and floating above his end of the board in a lotus position, is growing visibly irritated.

Ladybug realizes Chat is probably disturbing him on purpose. After all, their goal is not to win the game—they just need to keep the Chessmaster’s victory at bay long enough to figure out where the akuma is hiding and how to get to it. Thinking about the quiet, studious atmosphere of Chat’s home life, she also figures he’s had enough of sitting still and if he can get away with doing gymnastics while strategizing, he will.

When Ladybug sees the Chessmaster sacrifice his queen to protect a knight, she swings down to the esplanade to join her partner, secretly pleased to have an excuse to get closer to him. From her new vantage point, she notices the same knight’s fist is clenched.

“Did you see that?” Chat asks. “That move didn’t make sense—he’s gotta be planning something.”

She nods. “Pretty sure the knight has the akuma,” she whispers. “Save your cataclysm for now.”

She summons her lucky charm while Chat calls out their next move to distract the Chessmaster.

—

By the time the miraculous cure sweeps over the esplanade, the spark of novelty from when she first saw Chat Noir has long faded, replaced by the rush of adrenaline and relieved accomplishment that follows every battle.

When their eyes meet over outstretched fists, Ladybug tries to remember the face of the boy she saw in the mirror the day before, but she can’t latch onto anything specific. She remembers blond hair, because of course Chat has that, but his eyes? She remembers they were gorgeous, but she’s lost the mental picture.

All that remains is the vague impression of loneliness and the silence of hours stretching out, slender hands turning pages with a rustle that echoes through an empty hall.

What is his civilian name, again? She has to dig through several A-options before _Adrien_ floats to the surface.

“Meet me on the Eiffel Tower after a recharge,” Ladybug whispers to her partner, aware of the de-akumatized Chessmaster stirring to their left.

She watches the flicker of hope ignite in Chat Noir’s eyes, then dull as he hesitates, as if he has reservations.

“Uh—if you can,” she hedges. “Are you expected at home?”

“No, it’s fine.” Golden locks fly as Chat shakes his head furiously. “We need to talk.”

Ladybug’s earrings beep.

“Go on ahead, I’ll take care of the victim,” Chat urges. “Meet you there in five minutes.”

—

They sit side by side, legs dangling from a beam. The altitude used to give Ladybug vertigo when the suits were new, but she’s gotten used to it. Seeing buildings recede into tiny specks at the edges of the horizon reminds her how vast the city is and how many people are relying on them.

Chat speaks first. “So… did your kwami explain what’s happening?” 

The memories of the swap are so distant now that it’s almost surreal to hear him refer to it, as if he snatched a thought from inside her head that she’s never shared with anyone.

“Yeah,” she answers, and just to make sure they’re talking about the same thing, adds, “You mean… what happened yesterday, right?”

Chat nods and unzips the right pocket of his suit, extracting something folded and bright yellow.

Recognition triggers memories of penning the note to rise to the forefront of Ladybug’s mind, but until that moment she had forgotten completely about it. “I wrote that,” she states in mild surprise.

He unfolds the note and shows her. Of course, it’s her own handwriting: **_Are you real? —Marinette._ **

“Right… I remember now,” Ladybug murmurs.

“So, you have your answer.” Chat gives her a reserved but sincere smile. “All of that was real. And—I’m so happy to have _met_ you and to learn about your life. Your parents are so sweet and fun, and you have the most _awesome_ friends…”

As Chat Noir speaks, despite his gentle tone and sweet words, Ladybug feels far too exposed, especially when she thinks about the fact that he’s been _in her body._ She remembers having to squint through her eyelashes to avoid feeling indecent when she needed to use the bathroom, and the reality that he knows her as intimately as she knows him smacks her in the face.

“—and just as I always expected, you’re _beautiful,_ Milady, and—”

Hearing these words, she suddenly feels warm and uncomfortable, as if a flush has spread from the tips of her hair to the ends of her toes. He’s seen her, he’s seen _everything,_ and he thinks she’s beautiful. She scrambles to her feet abruptly.

Chat’s eyes widen with alarm. “I’m sorry, I—did I say something wrong?”

“You’d better not be _touching_ me, you alley cat,” she threatens, crossing her arms over her chest.

His eyes flick down to her crossed arms, then back to her face, and his cheeks go aflame as he comprehends what she means. “N-no!” He looks horrified. “I promise you I’ve never—and _would_ never do that!”

Far too embarrassed, Ladybug unhooks her yo-yo, ready to flee. She wants to scream into her pillow, maybe hide under her covers for a few days and pretend this isn’t happening.

“Please—wait, Ladybug! I’m sorry. I didn’t—you know I wouldn’t—” Chat flounders in the futility of convincing her of his integrity. And despite his best efforts not to pay too much attention to Ladybug’s body, he isn’t blind and senseless, and he curses the fact that despite having forgotten most of what _happened_ during the day, he _does_ remember her pretty curves, captivating eyes, and soft lips. The very thought fills him with shame.

Ladybug squeezes her eyes shut, one steadying hand on a vertical beam, yo-yo clutched in the other. She takes a deep breath through her nose, letting the wind refresh her lungs and restore her composure.

Though she feels intruded upon, she knows Chat Noir isn’t at fault. He is as much a victim of circumstance as she is. Yet, she can’t bring herself to look at him. Her cheeks and the tips of her ears are still hot.

“I promise you I’d never do anything weird like that. I respect you too much, Ladybug.” Chat’s voice comes from right behind her, and she feels him touch her upper arm.

She shudders and flinches away. Him touching her is nothing new—they’re used to touching—but the knowledge that he’s been _inside_ her body is currently very present and makes the physical contact unsettling.

“Sorry,” Chat mutters, retracting his hand as if he’s been burned.

When she turns around to face him, he looks aghast. She realizes he’s hurt, and the part of her that cherishes him riots.

“I’m sorry, Chat,” she says in a rush as she steps toward him, offering her hand.

His gaze drops to it, tension still pinching the edges of his mask. He looks afraid to touch her.

“It’s okay,” she entreats. “I didn’t mean to imply… I mean, you haven’t done anything wrong. I’m sorry if I made you feel bad.”

Tentatively, Chat places his right hand in hers, soft and light as a sparrow’s tread.

Ladybug’s fingers curl around his. They’re in this together—he is as exposed and vulnerable as she is. He has given his trust and good will, and when one gives, the other must also in order to maintain balance.

“I trust you, Chaton.” She raises her eyes to meet his and forces herself not to look away. Whatever strange thing is happening between them, this trust is most important.

The barest of hopeful smiles appears on his lips. “Thank you, Ladybug.”

She releases a breath and gestures at the beam where they were sitting. Letting their hands part, Chat Noir resumes his former perch, and Ladybug settles down beside him.

“So,” she begins, “what do we do? We can’t let it keep happening.”

“We can do _this_ more, right?” Chat suggests, waving his hand to indicate the space between them. “Plagg said it would stop if we spent more time together.”

“We could,” Ladybug says softly, reflecting on the fact that this is actually the very first time they’re doing this. They’ve never sat and just talked beyond the furtive observations and hissed imperatives they share during battle. “Will it be enough, though?”

Chat shrugs, trying not to let his apprehension show. He has no idea what ‘enough’ is. And despite his suggestion, he isn’t sure he can afford to do this much more often, anyway, without a better plan.

He hasn’t checked his baton’s timepiece—he doesn’t want to give Ladybug the impression that he’s in a rush—but he’s tense because he _is_ expected home for dinner at six-thirty sharp and Nathalie is good at sniffing out his lies. He feels reckless out here with Ladybug, throwing caution to the wind.

“I’m sorry if this is all my fault,” Ladybug says, voice wobbling. She’s looking down at her knees, shoulders pulled up, and her hands are gripping the edge of the beam.

“Why would it be your fault?”

“I’m the one who kept turning you down,” she says in a hushed, remorseful tone. “I’ve been pushing you away.” Her justification was that she didn’t want to lead him on, but maybe in rejecting his feelings, she created unnecessary distance between them and let their friendship suffer.

“This isn’t your fault, Ladybug. I—it’s neither of our faults. Anyway, we’ll be fine, won’t we? Now that we know what’s happening, we’ll fix it. No problem.” He leans toward her and bumps his shoulder against hers.

She looks up and gives him a strained smile. “Right.”

Chat’s smile fades. “Was it… that bad?”

Ladybug blinks, not following. “What do you mean?”

“My life.” Chat bites his lip. “You seem really stressed out by this whole thing, and—did you hate it that much?”

“I—no! Of course I didn’t hate it!” Ladybug protests.

“Are you afraid of swapping again?” Chat asks.

“Aren’t you?” she deflects, cringing at the strongly-implied ‘yes.’ But why shouldn’t she be scared? Swapping bodies is entirely unnatural and unnerving, and they _shouldn’t_ be comfortable with the idea.

Chat’s lips part, as if he’s surprised by her question. After a beat, he answers, “No, not really. When I thought it was a dream, it was like… a really good dream I wouldn’t mind having again and again. I’m sorry you have to deal with my lame life, though.”

Ladybug purses her lips, feeling guilty that she doesn’t share her partner’s sentiment toward the swap. “I never said your life was lame! It’s just—I felt like I was getting everything wrong, and it was bad enough when I thought it was just a dream, but—this is your _life_ we’re talking about. What if I mess things up for you?”

Chat pauses for a moment before reaching out hesitantly to overlap her fingers with his. Recognizing that he’s probably treading carefully in light of her reaction to his touch earlier, Ladybug smiles to reassure him that the contact is okay. 

He exhales a sigh of relief and squeezes her fingers gently. “Don’t worry about that. I’ll be fine—whatever happens, I’ll deal with it. I’ll make you some cheat sheets if that would make things easier.”

Ladybug watches his face as he regards her softly through his bangs, lips upturned reassuringly. He’s always bending over backward to make things easier for her, and if she hasn’t felt it from all the times he stepped between her and an impending attack, she certainly feels it now. “Thank you, Chat. I’d appreciate that.”

He takes back his hand, and Ladybug unconsciously follows it with her eyes, realizing only after the fact that she appreciated the show of affection and regretted the loss of it. Heat rising to her cheeks, she turns to look out toward Paris instead.

They sit in silence, watching the cars crawl through the streets below like toys.

Ladybug wonders what Chat Noir is thinking. Is he hurt that she didn’t enjoy her day in his life? Has he forgiven her for accusing him of touching her body? She feels sorry for even suspecting that he’d try that—for even _voicing_ the suspicion, even though she never for a moment believed that he would. She _does_ trust him.

She watches his dark form in her peripheral vision, tracks the pendulum motion of his legs kicking out whimsically into the air. His shoulder is a few centimeters away from hers, and his flaxen hair shimmers as the wind stirs it. She can’t see his face unless she turns her head, and she wants to, but feels too self-conscious to let him know she’s watching him.

Has he paid this much attention to her all this time?

Or more, maybe? She isn’t even in love with Chat Noir, yet she’s so attuned to his every movement that she feels the need to get away and recuperate her nerves. It’s _tiring_ to pay so much attention to someone.

A scrap of that thought lodges in her mind like a morsel she can’t quite swallow, and she does her bet to flush it away—she is _not_ in love with Chat Noir, and she is definitely _not_ going to think about this when there are more important issues to worry about.

She attempts to steer her thoughts back to manageably practical topics, like how they’re going to successfully impersonate one another.

There’s a flash of black mask as he turns toward her, and she takes it as an impetus to speak, resulting in a mutual failed start.

“How good—”

“So, do you—”

“Sorry. You go ahead,” Ladybug says, gesturing to give him the spotlight.

“No, you.” Chat presses his lips together.

Ladybug sighs, knowing he won’t speak until she does. “Okay. How good are you at copying handwriting?”

Chat tilts his head, considering. “Hmm. I’ve never tried it before, but I could probably do it. Why?”

“Well… if there’s another swap, we should probably be more careful,” Ladybug says. “Someone could figure out our identities if we’re too obvious, and it could get back to Hawkmoth.”

Chat nods in agreement. “That makes sense. So when I take notes for you, I’ll copy your handwriting as well as I can.”

“And you should probably destroy that note I left, too,” Ladybug adds.

Chat’s fingers tighten around the note still clutched in his left hand. He understands Ladybug’s reasoning, but he feels like something precious is being taken away from him. If he doesn’t have a reminder of her name and her existence, what’s going to stop him from forgetting? “Okay,” he says reluctantly, tone flat.

“And we should fill each other in on what’s happening every day, but destroy the notes once we wake up,” Ladybug continues to specify conditions, thinking aloud. “Even when we’re ourselves, too, so we’re not so clueless when we wake up. —Oh, I’ve got it! We can keep something like diaries. I’ll put one beside my bed for you, okay?”

Chat nods, face brightening. “A diary! That’s a good idea. I’ll keep one for you, too. Good thing I have a few empty notebooks lying around.”

“Perfect.” Ladybug grins.

The empty feeling that started when Ladybug mentioned destroying the note begins to fade as Chat Noir envisions writing notes to Ladybug every night and potentially reading hers in the morning. “We don’t have to destroy the diary entries, do we?”

“No, I mean—if we get good enough at copying each other’s handwriting, we can leave the notes after all. We just shouldn’t make it obvious to other people that we’re swapping,” Ladybug explains. “So if there’s anything that would give us away, we should get rid of it.”

“Okay yeah, makes sense,” Chat agrees. He vows to become a pro handwriting-copier so she can keep all his notes. He has utmost faith that she’ll have no problem—she’s a designer, after all.

As they continue to hash out the rules of their new connection, swinging their legs hundreds of meters above the ground, their conversation devolves to less businesslike topics.

“If you can manage it without getting caught, you should try sliding down the main banister,” Chat suggests excitedly. “It’s a thrill.”

“You _would_ do that,” Ladybug says with a slight smile, trying to picture what the main banister looks like.

“Nathalie says it’s dangerous, though.”

 _Ah, Nathalie,_ Ladybug recalls. _The governess._

“You know, I’m really clumsy,” she warns. “Maybe it’s not a good idea for me to be trying stuff like that.”

“Well, I’m not clumsy, and you’ll be in _my_ body, so you’ll be fine.”

Ladybug laughs. “I’m not so sure it works that way. I _wish_ all your skills and capabilities were hard coded into your body… like playing the piano. I know for a _fact_ I’m still garbage at it even in your body.”

She congratulates herself on remembering that he plays the piano. Despite the dream-haze, the image of black and white keys has been burned into her memory after the hours she spent in front of the instrument. It’s a shame that she can’t remember a pinch of what she learned in all that time.

“Aww, you could never be garbage, Bug,” Chat encourages.

 _“This_ body hasn’t touched a piano since école primaire,” Ladybug says, lifting a hand to inspect her fingers. A thought occurs to her. “By the way, what pieces were you practicing?”

Chat rattles off a list of composer names, titles, and numbers, but the only one that strikes her as familiar enough is ‘Raindrop Prelude.’ She latches onto that and stores it in her memory. Maybe she can get ahold of a keyboard to do at least a bit of practicing in her own body, in order to pretend more convincingly.

They talk some more, but in the middle of Chat sharing an anecdote about a midnight kitchen escapade, he freezes then stands hastily.

“What’s wrong?” Ladybug questions, getting to her feet as well.

Chat lifts his baton to check the timepiece and blanches: _eight-thirty._ “I was supposed to be home two hours ago,” he says, mouth dry.

Ladybug’s face contorts in horror. “Oh no, I’m so sorry!”

“It’s not your fault, Buguinette,” Chat says, but he looks clearly shaken. “Sorry, but I need to go.”

Despite his urgency, he holds out his hand toward Ladybug. When she places her hand in his, he bends to kiss her knuckles gently. It’s a greeting he’s given her dozens of times, but this time it feels different—more tender—and once again, her fingers mourn the loss of his when he releases his hold.

Extending his baton, he bounds away, and Ladybug instinctively looks off into the sky. It’s a reflex she’s developed so as not to discover Chat’s identity by accidentally paying too much attention to the direction he takes home after every akuma battle.

When she turns back to where she saw Chat heading, she can’t see him anymore.

She wonders how much their energy mixed tonight. They were together for a few hours, just chatting and sharing their thoughts. Maybe she _won’t_ wake up in his bed tomorrow.

She isn’t sure why, especially since the idea of swapping again had seemed dreadful just a couple hours ago, but the thought brings an ache to her chest.

— 

When Chat Noir nears the mansion, he sees the light on in his room and Nathalie’s silhouette moving around. Heart pounding, he switches direction mid-bound to land in a nearby alley. Even if he were to wait until she leaves and enter through his window, she already knows he isn’t in his room and he wouldn’t be able to explain his sudden reappearance.

His only option is to go in through the front door. Trembling slightly, he detransforms.

“You sure spent a long time with your girlfriend,” Plagg whines as soon as he materializes out of the suit.

Adrien has the wedge of cheese ready and holds it out to his kwami in shaking fingers. He’s too distressed to even oppose Plagg’s use of the word ‘girlfriend.’ “Yeah, and I’m in huge trouble,” he mutters.

Plagg looks around. “What are we doing out here?”

“Shh, hurry and eat,” Adrien frets. “I have to go in through the front door and you can’t phase into me with cheese in your hands.”

For once, Plagg skips the snarky retort and does as he’s told.

—

Five minutes later, Adrien presses the red intercom button and braces himself.

As soon as the camera appears, Nathalie’s voice greets him, shrill and tense. “Adrien, where were you?”

“I—”

“Never mind, get inside immediately!”

The gate opens, but the camera doesn’t retreat into the wall until Adrien begins to walk.

Nathalie opens the double doors and stands between them like a sentinel as he approaches, and her eyes follow him like a hawk’s as he steps through the threshold, compelling him to turn around and face her as she closes the doors behind them.

With her back to the door, she crosses her arms, shoulders drawn up and stiff—an uncharacteristically unprofessional posture.

Adrien’s stomach plummets.

“I’ve been calling you for _hours,”_ Nathalie says in a soft, measured tone, barely-concealed tension crackling beneath the surface of her words. “Where were you?”

“I—I just went on a walk,” Adrien says. “I felt like I needed some fresh air and—”

“How did you get out?” Nathalie demands, cutting him off.

“Through the front do—”

“You’re lying, Adrien,” Nathalie interrupts again, emphasizing each word. “I found your window open.”

A chill spreads through Adrien’s body, starting from the pit of his stomach, but he forges bravely on with his lies in a slightly defiant tone. “I had the window open before I left, just to let in a breeze.”

Nathalie watches him with suspicious, steely eyes. “I didn’t see you leave your room.”

“You were probably in the bathroom, or you weren’t looking at the time,” Adrien bluffs, brow furrowing with indignation born of internalizing his lie. He feels sleazy doing it, but his freedom and his miraculous are worth every underhanded tactic he has no choice but to use. He prays that she hasn’t checked the footage.

A pink hue spreads over Nathalie’s cheeks. If she hasn’t retorted yet and she’s ashamed to admit that she’s human enough to take her eyes off the screen for an instant, Adrien guesses she _hasn’t_ gone into the archives. He’ll have to delete the file as soon as he can, and let her believe the automatic backup setting got turned off by accident—he hopes she hasn’t changed the admin password since the last time he had to hack into the surveillance drive.

 _“If_ you did escape through the window,” Nathalie says gravely, “Do you know _how_ much danger you put yourself in? This isn’t just about disobedience, Adrien. You could have _died!”_

“Well…” Adrien looks away, defiance petering out slightly in the face of Nathalie’s unexpected solicitation. His voice comes out softer than before. “It’s a good thing I _didn’t_ escape through the window, then.”

Nathalie frowns. It’s clear that she doesn’t fully believe Adrien, and doesn’t want to let him off the hook too easily, but she has no concrete reason to doubt his alibi. “Fine. Now, can you explain why your walk took _more than two hours?”_

 _Two hours?_ Adrien snorts bitterly, starting to feel more annoyed than nervous of being found out. _More than two hours_ means no one even noticed he was gone until he didn’t show up for dinner.

Nathalie’s eyes flash with irritation. “Is this a _joke_ to you, Adrien?”

Adrien clenches his jaw. “No, it’s not a joke.”

“So?”

He stares at the door behind Nathalie, digging his fingernails into his palms. “I just wanted to explore Paris. I’ve never even walked freely around my _own city.”_

“If you really wanted to explore, you could have asked me. Victor would have been happy to accompany you,” Nathalie says coolly.

“I don’t want to be walked around like some dog!” Adrien exclaims, real anger flaring up.

“Adrien,” Nathalie begins in a cautionary tone, but before she can say anything more, Adrien whirls around on his heel and storms toward the staircase.

He pauses at the foot of the staircase, one hand on the banister, as a thought snags and his momentum bleeds out like air from a punctured tire.

“Does Father know…?”

“Your father has been in his studio since lunch,” Nathalie answers. “He’ll probably eat late again tonight.”

“So he doesn’t know,” Adrien mutters. He doesn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed. “I don’t see what the big deal is, then. I’m back now, so neither of us is in trouble.”

Nathalie’s mouth becomes a thin line. “Do you really think I’m only concerned with staying out of trouble, Adrien? Do you think I don’t _worry about your well-being_ when you go missing for _hours?”_

Adrien returns her gaze quietly, mouth sealed shut—he doesn’t know how to respond to caring words delivered in a harsh tone. He’s no longer angry, but his pride and his frustration with the situation make it difficult to lower his defenses.

He appreciates that she cares. Most of the time, he doesn’t think she does. And while part of him just wants to leave and not have to deal with this, he wants to communicate that he cares, too.

Taking a deep breath, he removes his hand from the banister and takes a step toward Nathalie.

Now she looks more resigned than upset.

The antagonism rolls off Adrien, and he crosses the floor, holding his arms out to his guardian.

It feels unnatural, and a force stronger than gravity pulls back on his arms, making him want to fold them back against his sides and turn and go into his room to be alone.

But he stands there with arms outstretched until Nathalie lifts hers, slender brows raised in question.

“I’m sorry, Nathalie,” Adrien says and puts his arms around her. The whole gesture feels horribly stilted. They haven’t hugged since he was probably ten, and he never thought there might be a wrong way to do it until now, because for some reason, he feels like he isn’t doing it right. Her hands lie on his back lightly, as if she’s afraid to move or hold him any tighter.

Adrien pats her back twice and pulls away, catching the ghost of a smile before her face resumes its usual solemn mask.

“I’ll have the kitchen reheat your dinner,” Nathalie announces.

The hug seems to have done its job. The friction is gone, and she sounds like her usual self again—curt and cool-headed.

“I’ll be down in a minute, then,” Adrien says, jogging to the stairs. If he’s quick, he can delete the footage before his food is ready.

—

After dinner, Adrien runs his index finger across the spines of several empty notebooks in the corner of his bookshelf. Now that the footage is deleted and the scare of being found out has mostly passed, his buoyant spirits have returned at the thought of the new secret connection with Ladybug.

His mother was fond of notebooks, and would often buy two whenever she found pretty ones—one for herself, one for Adrien. A few of them have the first page or two written on, but he doesn’t like to ruin them with his penmanship, so most are blank. They’ve become especially precious after his mother’s disappearance.

Ladybug is _definitely_ more than worthy of one, though.

Making his selection, he turns the notebook over in his hands and cracks it open to make sure it’s blank. Satisfied, he slides down the pole to the ground floor.

“Hmm, that’s nice,” Plagg remarks, floating over to investigate his choice.

Adrien smiles. “I hope she likes it.”

“It might be awhile before she sees it.”

“You think so?” Adrien questions. It _does_ make sense—they spent hours together today and talked like they never have before, which seems to be exactly the kind of thing the miraculous are trying to get them to do. Still, Adrien had gotten so used to the idea of future swaps that he forgot to consider that their extended rendezvous would delay the next one. “I—okay, I guess. I just want to be prepared.”

He sets the notebook on the cabinet beside his bed. He’s certain Ladybug will notice. She’s good at picking up small details like that.

Heaving a sigh, he throws himself into his desk chair. His head feels frazzled from all the new information, the long talk with Ladybug, and the confrontation with Nathalie, and homework is the last thing he feels prepared to do—but thanks to the akuma, he hasn’t even _started_ on his day’s work yet.

“That was a close call today, huh, Kitten?” Plagg settles down on the keyboard.

Adrien nods with another sigh. “Worth it, though.” Despite his words, anxiety pinches his features, and he twists the ring around his finger.

“What are you gonna do?” Plagg inquires.

“Not sure,” Adrien answers, but his options are slim and he’s already pretty much made up his mind. Either he can continue sneaking out, risking discovery by prolonging his outings and hoping Ladybug can handle fighting alone if akumas strike at inconvenient times, or he can double down on his efforts to go to public school where his occasional absence won’t be missed as easily. It’s clear which option is more appealing.

Remembering what Ladybug said about the note, Adrien extracts it from his pocket. This time, a peculiar feeling hits him as his eyes land on the feminine script. A feeling like seeing a familiar word and suddenly questioning its spelling.

The name ‘Marinette’ strikes him as foreign, and he has to consciously remind himself that it’s Ladybug’s name, like connecting a memorized equation to a physical law. It’s in his head, not his heart. He stares at the note, trying to conjure the pleasant memories that he savored like candies up until the akuma fight. Fearfully, he realizes that he can hardly call to mind anything specific. He can’t even picture her face anymore.

“Adrien? What’s wrong?” Plagg asks, noticing his chosen’s agitation.

“I can’t remember,” Adrien breathes, heart palpitating. If the memories are this fuzzy after one day, what will happen if they don’t swap tomorrow?

“That’s how it works, kid,” Plagg says apologetically. “Since the memories aren’t _yours,_ they fade over time, like a dream. But you didn’t know each other’s identities before, anyway, so it’s not like you’re losing anything. As long as you’re close enough, things’ll go back to normal.”

“What do you _mean_ I’m not losing anything?” Adrien asks incredulously. “I learned who Ladybug is. I found the love of my life. I _need_ to remember her.”

Adrien grabs a pen, not sure yet what he’ll write, but desperate for _anything_ he can use as an anchor to her identity.

Her parents own a bakery—but there are tens of thousands of bakeries in Paris, and he’s forgotten what the façade looks like. She likes to design clothes—but that’s hardly a unique feature. She has dark hair and blue eyes. She used to play the flute. She occasionally plays chess with her father. She prefers tea to coffee. She isn’t a morning person.

Adrien nearly growls in frustration and flicks the pen across his desk. How is any of this information going to help him find her?

“Kitten, the point of all this was never for you to learn Ladybug’s identity,” Plagg says in a placating tone, hovering in front of him. 

“I know, but—” Adrien drops his head into his hands, elbows propped on the desk, and moans, “I love her,” as if those three words explain everything.

Plagg sighs. “Come on, kid, don’t despair. You’re finally getting closer to Ladybug. Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted?”

“Yes, but—” _what’s the point if I forget the girl underneath the mask?_

Adrien doesn’t say the rest of the sentence. He always swore to himself that he loved her, regardless of who she was under the mask. If he can get closer to her as Ladybug, shouldn’t that be enough? Does he _need_ to know her name?

“Don’t forget, you’re still dealing with Hawkmoth,” Plagg reminds Adrien, “and it’s still dangerous for your identities to come out.”

Adrien presses his palms against his eyes, searching for images in the blackness behind his eyelids. He wants to know the girl with the pink room, surrounded by friends and sweet scents.

He opens his eyes, and colorful spots dance in his vision as he picks up the post-it note and reads it again. He doesn’t just want to know Ladybug. He wants to know _Marinette._

Adrien’s chest heaves as he takes heavy breaths, and he can feel tears begin to build up at the corners of his eyes. “I don’t want to forget her—I don’t want to _lose_ her.”

“Adrien, even if you forget her civilian identity, you’re _not_ losing her,” Plagg reasons, landing on Adrien’s right hand and starting up a purr. “Calm down, Kitten.”

Adrien clenches his fists with determination and wipes his eyes with the back of his left hand. “I’m gonna go see her.”

 _“See_ her?”

“Yeah. If I meet her as myself, I won’t forget, right? I’ll—I’ll go to her school.” One of the few facts Adrien remembers from the swap is that she goes to the school down the street—Françoise Dupont. “I’ll wait for her when their classes let out, and we’ll meet, and—I’ll get to _keep_ that.”

Small body still draped over the back of Adrien’s hand and purring like a motor, Plagg turns his head to look at his charge. “You do know that it’s all the same, right? Whether you see her in the suit or as a civilian?”

“If I see her, I won’t forget who she is,” Adrien murmurs, breathing more evenly now.

“If you say so, kid,” Plagg hums, then drifts from Adrien’s hand to his collarbone, still purring.

Adrien lifts the yellow post-it note from the tabletop and skims his thumb over the name _Marinette_ one last time. “I’m going to see Marinette,” he declares. As if in hopes that saying the words will make the memory last longer, he repeats, “I’m going to see Marinette—civilian Ladybug.”

“Go if you want, then,” Plagg returns in a drawly, sleepy voice.

Setting down his pen, Adrien cups Plagg’s small body against him with his hand, letting the comforting vibrations wash over him. “Thanks, Plagg,” Adrien says, much calmer now from the physical comfort.

“‘Course, Kitten.”

Feeling emboldened and optimistic about his decision, Adrien resolutely shreds the note into pieces as tiny as he can make them, then brushes the debris off his desk into his palm and deposits it all in the wastepaper bin.

He pulls a new post-it note from the dispenser, retrieves the pen, and jots down the name _Françoise Dupont_ to remind himself of his resolution. That done, he slouches against the back of his chair, head thrown back, feeling suddenly fatigued from the emotional turmoil and Plagg’s purring. The kwami hasn’t budged from his spot, nestled in the dip of Adrien’s clavicle.

“Okay, enough,” Adrien laughs. “Are you trying to put me to sleep? I still have homework to do.”

“You could always go to bed now and wake up early,” Plagg suggests.

“Go away, shoulder demon.” Adrien pokes him playfully.

“You tire me out, kid,” Plagg grouses, separating from Adrien’s collarbone to drift off in the direction of the cheese cabinet. “Gotta replenish my energy.”

“Go do that.”

Heaving himself up, Adrien pulls his stack of schoolbooks closer, trying to wrangle his racing mind into a state capable of dealing with schoolwork. He doesn’t know how this will all end, but at least one thing is certain: things are changing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there, thank you so much for reading. What did you think? I'd love to hear your thoughts.
> 
> I'm not sure when I'll post the next chapter, but maybe within a week or so. See you next time. <3


	5. Rainy Exchange

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adrien makes good on his promise to see Marinette.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! How are you? I hope this chapter finds you well. You may have noticed that I've increased the chapter count by one—I ended up inserting another chapter after this one. I have a few due dates coming up, so it may be a week or so before I update again. Thanks so much to everyone who's following along with this story! Enjoy.

Adrien slides the front door closed, ever so slowly, until he hears it latch. Opening a black umbrella over his head, he breaks into a sprint toward the gate and punches in the code manually.

He hasn’t needed to escape this way since he found the black cat miraculous in his room a year ago, but there’s a reason he’s going back to old, clumsy methods. He needs to make this outing and meet her as _Adrien,_ not Chat Noir _._

If he were to sneak out through the window and detransform before meeting her, someone might recognize him and post photos on social media. He doesn’t want to risk raising more questions in Nathalie’s mind about how he got out. The miraculous and his duty to Paris are too precious for him to put on the line for something personal.

So, he flees from home on foot, knowing that his minutes are numbered before Nathalie figures out he’s gone and comes after him.

Adrien’s afternoon lessons ended early when he complained of a headache, and he’s arrived in time to see Françoise Dupont’s classes let out.

He doesn’t have a grand plan. He’s empty-handed and doesn’t even know what to say—all he wants is to see her. He needs to be sure she’s real—the sweet girl named Marinette, elusive as a legend in his mind, the civilian counterpart of his Ladybug. Even though he can’t picture her face anymore, he’s positive he’ll recognize her as surely as a lullaby his mother used to sing.

Pulling the umbrella low so no one can see his face, he ducks behind a column to wait.

—

During a pairs activity, Marinette leans forward and taps Nathaniel’s shoulder.

The redhead’s eyes light up as he turns, shaking his bangs out of his eyes. “What’s up, Marinette?”

“Can you get Nino?” Marinette mouths, pointing at his seatmate.

Looking a little disgruntled, Nathaniel jabs Nino with his elbow, muttering, “Marinette wants you.”

When Nino turns back toward Marinette, he blushes a scarlet to rival his cap. “Hey, Marinette.”

“Do you still have that keyboard in storage?” Marinette whispers loudly, leaning over Alya’s deskspace.

Nino’s eyebrows shoot up. “Yeah, why?”

“No one’s using it?” Marinette inquires.

“Uhh, no, not really,” Nino shrugs. “Mom got it for Chris when he started piano lessons, but that was a lost cause.”

“Could I possibly borrow it? I promise I’ll take good care of it.” Marinette pleads, lips stretching in a wide, toothy grin.

The hue of Nino’s cheeks deepens. “Sure. Um… you wanna come over after school and get it?”

“I have to watch Manon for a couple hours first, but after that, sure,” Marinette beams. “Thank you so much, Nino!”

Nino’s mouth clamps shut, and he turns back toward the front of the classroom. His cap finds its way into his fingers, where he begins to subject it to a thorough wringing.

“I think you broke him, girl,” Alya snorts. _“Both_ of them, actually. Do you wear some kind of aphrodisiac perfume to get all the guys to trip over their feet around you?”

Marinette blushes and swats at Alya. “Eww, what are you talking about?”

She won’t admit that Alya is onto something, but both boys _are_ acting a bit bizarre. Nino appears to be staring off into space still punishing his hat, while Nathaniel has entered hyperfocus mode, hunched over the worksheet they’re supposed to be collaborating on like a dragon over its treasure hoard.

“Boys are so weird,” Marinette mutters.

“So, what do you need that piano for?” Alya asks.

“Nothing special, I just need something to practice on.” Marinette pointedly taps the next question on their worksheet with the butt of her pen. _“So!_ How do _you_ think Great Britain’s industrialization affected the European power balance in the nineteenth century?”

“Nice try, girl.” Alya smirks. “I didn’t know you played the piano. What are you practicing for, huh? Got a secret project or something? Or is there _another_ reason…?” She waggles her eyebrows in Nino’s direction and nudges Marinette.

“It’s nothing, really!” Marinette says firmly. “I found some of Papa’s old piano books and I just wanted to give it a try, that’s all.” Believable enough—Tom did play the piano before.

Nonetheless, Alya gives her suspicious looks for the rest of the day.

—

Marinette groans when she sees a steady shower of raindrops peppering the blacktop of the school courtyard. “Ugh, I didn’t bring an umbrella.”

Alya laughs and pulls a leopard-print folded umbrella from her bag. “What’s new, girl? Don’t worry, I’ve gotcha covered.”

“You’re the best!” Marinette hooks her arm into Alya’s.

They take the sheltered route around the perimeter of the courtyard.

“So,” Alya leans closer, her hair brushing Marinette’s cheek. “Is there _something_ going on between you and our resident DJ?”

“No,” Marinette denies, appalled. “Why would you think that?”

“I mean, he’s _obviously_ got the hots for you,” Alya remarks with a knowing expression. “This piano thing is just an excuse to go over to his house, isn’t it?—That’s how he’s gonna see it, anyway.”

Marinette’s face scrunches in distaste. Is _that_ how this looks? “No way. I told you I don’t like _anyone_ that way.” Despite her words, her traitorous mind strays to Chat Noir—but why is she thinking about him? She does _not_ like him that way. He’s her partner and he’s very important to her, but their relationship is _not like that._ “I wasn’t lying—I just want to start learning how to play the piano, and I don’t know anyone else who has a keyboard lying around!”

Alya’s eyebrow arches. “What about Juleka? They’re bound to have one somewhere on that boat.”

“Anyway, I already asked Nino!” Marinette pouts. “What does it matter, anyway? Are you jealous or something?”

“Hah, as if.” Strangely, Alya turns away and has nothing more to say.

“Ah ha!” Marinette tugs on Alya’s arm, still linked in hers.

“Ah ha what?” Alya rolls her eyes.

“No-thing,” Marinette singsongs, snickering.

“What? I’m not!” Alya huffs, jostling Marinette’s arm.

Reaching the gate, Alya unfolds her umbrella, and once Marinette is safely underneath, they emerge into the rain.

They make it two steps out before Marinette freezes, her arm loosening from Alya’s and dropping to her side. Rain pelts her as the umbrella leaves her behind.

 _Orange shoes._ She’d forgotten he had orange shoes, but now that she’s looking at them, she knows it has to be him. He’s standing beside the column on the right with his phone out, face hidden under a black umbrella.

When he lifts the umbrella, his piercing verdant eyes instantly lock onto Marinette’s, and she realizes he’s been waiting for her. She’s never looked directly into those eyes with her own before, and the memories from the swap have faded, but there is no doubt in her mind that he’s Chat Noir. She feels like she’s ingested a swarm of akumas.

Alya backtracks, bringing Marinette back under the protective canopy, and gives her friend a puzzled look. “What’s going on, girl?”

“I—” Marinette’s voice fails her, and she swallows. “Um… you can go ahead without me.” She can’t tear her eyes away from the green-eyed boy lest he disappear like a phantasm.

“It’s raining, girl, what are you—” The words die on Alya’s lips when she catches sight of the boy and how he’s looking at Marinette. “… Oh. I _see._ Well, all right, girl, catch ya later.”

She lingers just long enough to see Marinette safely step under the boy’s umbrella, then throws a wave over her shoulder as she leaves alone.

In any case, Marinette doesn’t notice Alya’s departure—her attention is captivated by the boy who looks equally mesmerised by her.

“You came,” Marinette breathes. The butterflies inside her transform into bird wings beating her ribcage. His aquamarine windbreaker rustles as the sleeve of her cardigan brushes against it, making her painfully aware of how close they’re standing.

Civilian Chat nods. Even in the monotone atmosphere, she can see that he’s blushing. “Hi,” he murmurs. “I can’t believe it’s actually you… Marinette.”

“You remembered my name,” Marinette gasps.

The boy’s smile wilts. “You don’t remember mine?”

Marinette bites her lip. He looks so crestfallen, shame taints her excitement like a drop of black ink unfurling in a glass of pure water. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” He touches her wrist in a way so familiar it makes her chest ache, remembering that this is her partner. His eyes look soft without the mask. “I didn’t leave you a reminder of mine, so it’s not your fault—don’t feel bad. I’m Adrien. Adrien Agreste.”

“Adrien,” Marinette echoes, eyes roaming over his face and taking in every detail. After the initial instant of surprise that he’s _the_ Adrien Agreste, son of her favorite designer, the information slots itself back into her mind as if it had never left, and she calmly accepts it.

Every movement and slight fluctuation of expression between them seems amplified. This is Chat Noir, but also not Chat Noir. He’s an entirely new boy, with a halo of blond hair, gemlike irises, high cheekbones dusted in pink, and smooth skin. One hand holds the umbrella between them, and he combs the other through his hair like he doesn’t know what to do with it.

She knows from the nervousness in his smile that he’s anxious to make a good impression on her.

For so long, she’s held him at arm’s length, careful not to cross the boundary of friendship, trying not to encourage him that her heart will eventually change—as if she were allergic to his affections. At one point, she may have acted aloof so as not to get his hopes up.

Now, however, for the first time, she feels none of her former resistance. Instead, her primary concern is to assure him _Yes, I accept you, I like you, I care about you, you have nothing to worry about._

Adrien turns his body, angling the umbrella between them and the street to conceal their faces.

“Your shoes aren’t great for going undercover,” Marinette teases, seeking refuge from the new squall of emotions in familiar banter. “I noticed you right away, and I’m sure your governess will, too, if that’s who you’re hiding from.”

“Governess?” An amused smile lights up Adrien’s features. “Oh—you mean Nathalie?”

The tips of Marinette’s ears feel hot, as if she’s gotten a question wrong in front of the class. “Yeah, sorry.”

“Hey, I said you didn’t have to feel bad about forgetting, didn’t I?” His smile softens and he wrinkles his nose. “Honestly, I didn’t know they would stick out so much. I thought everyone had shoes like this.”

Though his eyes are twinkling, he says it with a mostly straight face, and Marinette isn’t sure if he’s joking. She thinks he is, but at the same time, maybe he really doesn’t know his shoes are an uncommon color.

A strangely subtle essence has been creeping up on her senses ever since she saw him, and she doesn’t realize what it is until now—the pungent odor of _cheese._ Camembert, to be precise. She can almost smell it, but it’s probably just her mind playing tricks. Why cheese?

On a whim, she leans forward and sniffs his shoulder. _Ahh._ The memory resurfaces and bursts to realization like an air bubble.

He barks out a surprised laugh. “Did you just _smell_ me?”

“I had to check if you smell like cheese,” Marinette confesses, finding it easy to voice her thoughts to him despite the novelty of the situation. “Your kwami eats it, doesn’t he? I remember that.”

At first, Adrien looks flabbergasted. “Cheese? You forgot my name, but you remember _cheese?”_

Marinette shrugs and recites a fact she learned on a science show once. “Scent is the sense most strongly connected to memory?”

He bursts out laughing, so hard that the umbrella droops slightly and they get wet. Sobering up, he apologizes and rights the umbrella. “So? Verdict?”

Marinette hums to build up suspense. Adrien is practically bouncing on his toes, dying to know whether he smells like cheese or not. It’s cute, and Marinette can’t pass up the opportunity to tease him more. “Horribly cheesy, just like your puns,” she accuses. “I’m glad you don’t go to my school—I couldn’t bear to be around the double cheesiness every day.”

No sooner than the words are out of her mouth, she regrets it. She remembers his lonely hours, his eagerness in seeking her approval, and fears he’ll take the joke too seriously.

“So callous, Princess!” Adrien gasps, putting one hand on his chest in mock drama, but she can feel that he is actually hurt.

 _Princess._ He won’t call her _Milady_ out loud of course, in case someone overhears, but _‘Princess,’_ spoken with adoration in spite of his playful tone, gets under her skin like a grain of sand.

“I was kidding,” she exhales, grabbing his hand off his chest before she can think about it and squeezing it in both of hers. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. You don’t smell like cheese at all, and I’d love to have you here at school.”

The words coax a smile onto his face, weak with relief. He looks far too vulnerable without the mask, and the admiration for her that he never bothered to hide is evident on his face. The thought brings heat to Marinette’s cheeks, and she lets go of his hand, looking away to get a brief respite from the direct assault on her heart.

“So, why did you come?” she mumbles, then realizes how cold the question sounds. “N-not that I think you shouldn’t have. I just—why?”

“I had to see you.” Adrien lifts a hand and tentatively turns her cheek so their eyes meet again. The touch burns her skin in the most pleasant way. “I wanted to be sure that the girl I was seeing in my not-dream was really—”

Two sharp beeps sound from the street level, and Adrien glances furtively over his shoulder. It’s a sleek silver car. He turns back to Marinette and opens his mouth to say something, but is distracted by the sound of the passenger seat door opening. Nathalie gets out and opens a black umbrella.

“Here, take this,” Adrien says, shoving the handle of his umbrella toward Marinette. “You can give it back next time we meet.” He holds her gaze.

She knows what the gaze means.

It means he’s determined to have that ‘next time.’ It means he took risks to meet her, and he’s willing to take them again. It means this is only the beginning.

As if to seal his unspoken message with a promise, he adds, “I’m coming to your school.”

Marinette’s lips part in surprise.

Nathalie is halfway up the steps now, and her pace quickens as she nears Adrien.

Marinette wouldn’t say that she dislikes Nathalie, but her presence makes Marinette’s chest tighten with anxiety. She’s almost certain Nathalie views her as a threat.

Marinette opens her purse and fishes for something, _anything_ to give Adrien in return. A token of proof that they really met, a deposit to hold him to his vow that they’ll meet again. Her fingers snag on a woven cord, and she pulls it out—a beaded charm she made a few years ago with her mother.

Thrumming with haste—she can see Nathalie’s face now, and no, she is not happy—she shoves the trinket into Adrien’s hands. “Thanks for coming, Adrien.”

He flashes a smile that evaporates as soon as Nathalie’s hand closes around his upper arm.

“Adrien, please get in the car,” Nathalie says through grit teeth, her usual politeness underlined with urgency. “Your father is not happy with you.”

She emphasizes the word _father,_ as if to explain that she’s acting on his behalf and that the consequences for disobedience will be far greater than what Nathalie could deal out on her own.

“Bye, Marinette.” Adrien tries to smile again, but it comes out more like a grimace.

Still clasping Adrien’s arm, Nathalie watches him with the intense focus of a falcon tracking its prey. Unfazed by her supervision, Adrien extends his hand toward Marinette in an unhurried gesture.

She takes it and gives his fingers a squeeze. The distinct thought surfaces in her mind that his hand is the most precious thing she’s ever held in her life.

And then he turns away, leaving her with a palpable feeling of absence.

Nathalie’s eyes flick to the black umbrella Marinette is still holding. “Adrien, is that your—”

Adrien shakes his head. “It’s hers. Let’s go, Nathalie.” His voice is hard, and he briskly leads the way to the car before she can cause a fuss about leaving his umbrella in the hands of someone who should be a stranger.

Nathalie glances disapprovingly back at the black umbrella. Marinette is frozen to the spot. Guilt emanates from her palm pressed into the solid, seemingly-expensive handle, but she steels her expression, refusing to look sheepish. Even with her face, she won’t apologize for Adrien.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! What did you think? You might be wondering if/when they're going to swap again. They will, in Chapter Seven, Eight, and Ten.
> 
> Take care until next time.

**Author's Note:**

> [Find me on Tumblr.](https://mireilletan.tumblr.com)


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